


Familiar

by foxprince (renardroi)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Animal Death, Brief Mentions of Animal Abuse, Canon-Typical Injuries/Description of Injuries, Fae & Fairies, Gen, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Tags May Change, idk what's going on I'm just chilling and writing whatever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2020-01-23 13:35:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18550825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renardroi/pseuds/foxprince
Summary: Stiles sits back in his chair, a little shaken. Someone out there knows about the pack - knows about him, which is a little unusual since he's kind of a sideshow act compared to the real preternatural creatures running around. Maybe this is good though. He's got a spark, he can be an emissary to Scott's pack. That's like a diplomat. Sort of? This can be a cool diplomatic mission for him.A really stupid mission. It has to be a trap. Yeah it's a trap. That's not a real email address. This is like some kind of weird magic hacker thing trying to lure him to a creepy abandoned restaurant so he can kill Stiles. Or worse, to kidnap him and use him as bait. He'd be bad at his emissary job if he allowed himself to be bait.





	1. Let's Meet Up :)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Night Owls Early Birds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5490227) by [Lissadiane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lissadiane/pseuds/Lissadiane). 



> hey whats up I've never written fic for teen wolf and idk whats going on I'm like midway through season 4 i guess but I don't know when this fic should take place and this is super casual so I'm not gonna stress about it. just having a really self-indulgent weekend to write some fun urban fantasy.
> 
> EDIT: this fic was inspired largely by this work, Night Owls Early Birds by Lissadiane (https://archiveofourown.org/works/5490227), who I've credited, but it was also a little bit inspired by Those Are The Days That Bind Us by s_a_m (https://archiveofourown.org/works/3470564/). I'm 23 years old and a real adult but I don't know how to link things in notes even though I've been on ao3 for years.

The first interaction with faeries that Stiles has is an email. Just an email. At first he thinks it must be spam that somehow slipped through the cracks of the filter, because the subject line is suspicious at best. 

> ** Let's Meet Up :) **
> 
> from: IIIIIIIIII <?I @ IIIIII.?>
> 
> to: Stiles <obiwanstilinski@gmail.com>

He deletes fairly quickly, dismissing it as some junk porn or dating website bullshit or a really weird prank. He doesn't even bother to open it. As soon as he puts it in the trash folder, however, it pops right back into his inbox and opens itself.

> ** Let's Meet Up :) **
> 
> from: IIIIIIOI?OII <I?III@ III.??>
> 
> to: Stiles <obiwanstilinski@gmail.com>
> 
> _I've heard about your abilities and your "pack". I'd like the chance to introduce myself and exchange some knowledge. Lets meet for lunch on the solstice. Your choice._

Stiles sits back in his chair, a little shaken. Someone out there knows about the pack - knows about him, which is a little unusual since he's kind of a sideshow act compared to the real preternatural creatures running around. Maybe this is good though. He's got a spark, he can be an emissary to Scott's pack. That's like a diplomat. Sort of? This can be a cool diplomatic mission for him. 

A really stupid mission. It has to be a trap. Yeah it's a trap. That's not a real email address. This is like some kind of weird magic hacker thing trying to lure him to a creepy abandoned restaurant so he can kill Stiles. Or worse, to kidnap him and use him as bait. He'd be bad at his emissary job if he allowed himself to be bait. If he can't delete the email he'll just ignore...

> ** Let's Meet Up :) **
> 
> from: IIIIIIOI?OII <I?III@ III.??>
> 
> to: Stiles <obiwanstilinski@gmail.com>
> 
> _I've heard about your abilities and your "pack". I'd like the chance to introduce myself and exchange some knowledge. Lets meet for lunch on the solstice. Your choice._
> 
> _I'm just offering a conversation. Pick a place and I'll come find you._

The email updates in front of him. It's not a new email, the line of text just appears on his screen when he blinks. Cool, so even creepier. The solstice isn't for another - Stiles checks his calendar quickly - two days. He still has two days to decide what he wants to do about it. 

* * *

He means to tell Scott. He does. It's just that...uh...he really wants to do this on his own. He doesn't want Scott coming along, and it's not a spiteful thing he just knows that Scott's using all of his brainpower to be the alpha and bond with everyone. All that stuff is super important and Stiles wants to prove that he can do this on his own. He's not unprepared, though, he let Lydia know that he was meeting someone and they both have the pack on speed dial. It'll be fine. 

Except for the part where he's supposed to pick the meeting place. That's kind of a big mystery. He tried to respond to the email with his choice, after spending an hour debating it in his head, but of course the email didn't go through. It's not a real email, it's just nonsense, so he shouldn't have expected for it to work. Why would the magical hacker nonsense go both ways? That'd be stupid. 

He's nervous. He's sweating. Like a lot. He keeps wiping his hands on his jeans while he's driving into town. These are his best pants. Everything else is ripped or bloodstained, so his one pair of intact jeans and a nice button-up will have to do. Stiles doesn't know whether or not he's supposed to dress nice. He doesn't know a lot of things. All he can do is just try to feel his way through this. 

Which means driving into town and just randomly picking the first restaurant he sees. 

Restaurant is maybe too kind. It's an ancient mid-century diner that hasn't seen a new coat of paint in two decades, but it's comfortable and he knows his dad likes it. That's good intuition and he parks, realizing he'd like to follow it. 

Stiles sits near the back, half-turned towards the door, and obnoxiously tapping his knife against the table. He waits ten minutes. Then he orders a soda. It soothes him a little, but not enough to stop the fidgeting. He waits fifteen minutes. Then he reluctantly orders fries to keep the server from glaring at him. He doesn't know what his problem is, it's not like he's taking up a spot someone else will use. There'd been two other people in here when he walked in and one of them had already left. 

He startles when a man sidles into the seat across from him. 

Shit, he's tall. And not in the big hulking werewolf way. He's more lean, and kind of pretty. It's hard to tell what age he is - maybe somewhere between mid-twenties and mid-forties. Short strawberry blond hair and hazel eyes. When Stiles blinks, he almost catches a glimpse of sparkles across the man's skin, but there's nothing there when he tries to look. 

"I hope you weren't waiting long," the man says coyly. "It's been a long time since I passed through here. It took longer than I expected."

Stiles wipes his hands on his jeans again and takes far too long to figure out what an appropriate, diplomatic response would be. He's nervous. He's sweating. The man is patient, tilting his head at Stiles with a curious look while he waits for an answer. 

"Uh, well, I - I hope your...journey was pleasant?" He sounds as nervous as he is. Jesus this was a huge mistake, he's the least good at talking and he thought he could be an emissary? At least this dude seems like he's polite enough to not be judging him. He keeps a pleasant smile on his face and barely blinks at Stiles's stuttering. 

"It was." The man holds out his hand, palm up. "May I have your name?" 

Oh. He takes the proffered hand. "It's Stiles - I thought you woulda known. From the email it seemed like you knew a lot about us." 

"Secondhand knowledge is never perfect. I prefer to get my information from the source. You can call me Mael."

"Mael? Huh. Okay, Mael." Stiles sips his soda, nibbling at the straw. Cool. Now that introductions are out of the way, he's not sure what his next move should be. He has so many questions hanging at the tip of his tongue, and he can't decide which ones to start with. 

"So. The scrying manifested as an email." Mael waves down the server, politely filling in the silence. He has a kind of grace to him, that makes Stiles so keenly aware of how ungraceful his own movements are. "That's interesting." 

"Yeah, I tried to delete it - sorry." 

Mael narrows his eyes at Stiles, still holding a gentle smile. Stiles can only assume that means he's offended. He winces at his own misstep and tries to cover it up by shoving fries into his mouth, while Mael orders something for himself. As soon as the server walks away, the conversation picks up again. 

"It's quite alright. I understand that scrying is an imperfect form of communication, and I sensed your hesitation."

He hadn't noticed it before, but Stiles feels a heavy weight lift from his chest as soon as Mael forgives him. Almost instinctively, he sighs in relief. "Yeah the scrying. That's magic, then? So you have magic? Is that different from the spark? Are you human? I just - I know this is a lot of questions but I'm new to this whole emissary thing and you were pretty vague in the email - or the scrying." 

"Yes. It's magic. And magic different from a spark, but not all that different." Mael looks away, glancing around the room in a slow scan. It's meticulous and calculating, but it doesn't have any of the fear, paranoia, or judgement that it usually comes with in other people. "I did not intend to be cryptic. I was eager to meet you, Stiles."

Stiles shivers in response to his name.

"I've heard that you have true bonds with your pack. That's very rare, as far as I've seen, from my life experience and from my research. I'm interested in you and your pack, and I'd like to offer information in exchange for observing you, if you're interested in it." Mael looks demure, but his voice is confident. 

"Oh." Stiles wants information but not at the cost of someone learning too much about the pack. "I'll have to discuss it with our alpha, obviously. I don't know if he - if they want anyone listening in on pack meetings or whatever."

"Not the pack, Stiles. Just you. You can rest assured that I'm not interested in spying on your companions. I understand that you're used to dealing with intruders and people who want to destroy your town and your ilk," he leans forward in his chair as he speaks, "but I harbor no ill will towards your pack, yet. I respect what you've done to protect the the forest and the land, even if that's just a consequence of self-preservation. No, I'm interested in just yourself, your bonds, and your magic. Of course, I understand you have a duty to your leader, so if you need time to consider, I can wait.

"Today is the solstice, which made passing into Beacon Hills much easier. I have duties, however, this evening that I must attend to, so I can't stay for long. If you would like for me to return in a few days, I believe I can make arrangements for that. As long as our business concludes before the equinox, I'm amenable to meeting at any time." 

Stiles considers the offer, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets and messing with his phone there. It's a long time until the equinox. "What kind of information do you have?" 

"That depends on you. The nature of your so-called spark would determine what I can offer you." Mael regards him curiously, like he's a mystery to be puzzled out. After a moment he places his hand on the table, clearly offering it to Stiles. "Would you like to know your own nature?" 

Grimacing, and suddenly in a panic, Stiles stands up. "Um. Okay. Yeah, I m - maybe? That kinda sounds...fine. I'm not sure - uh, I'll think it over. It was cool meeting you, though. I guess I'll let you know what I decide somehow."

Mael nods slowly and stands as well, tilting his head to the side. He says nothing as Stiles continues to fumble with his goodbye. 

"Cool, cool, cool. Okay, see you...later...Mael." Stiles bows his head for some fucking reason and then immediately regrets it. Stupid, weird, dumb thing to do. He bolts, paying for his food and then practically jogging back to his jeep so that he can slam his forehead against the steering wheel in horror and embarrassment. This has to go down in history as the worst diplomatic meeting ever. He needs to call Scott. 


	2. Hella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This really isn't inspiring confidence, dude." Stiles grips the handle on his mug tighter. "This feels like you're about to tell me I'm secretly the grim reaper and I gotta kill people. I thought you said this was supposed to reassure me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is just a whole lot of chatting. maybe more interesting things will happen next chapter.   
> also in this house we love and respect scott mccall in this essay I will

Christmas happens and Stiles almost forgets about the whole thing. The holidays are a force to contend with and it doesn't make it any easier when he's trying to buy presents for werewolves and assorted creatures. It's one hell of a task, but he figures if he teams up with Scott, then two half-brained idiots working together will make one competent wolfpack parent. They muddle through it, together, and with very explicit gift suggestions from Lydia. 

The bigger problem, for some reason, is the whole Christmas tree ritual. It takes an hour to convince everyone, including Derek, to go look at trees and then another two hours of bickering about which one to take home. In the end, both Lydia and Derek are so fed up with the outing that they offer to buy one of each. There's enough room in the loft for it, and it's not like the loft couldn't use some sprucing up, anyways. Place looks abandoned unless the whole pack is in it, and even then it just looks like they're squatting, so three whole trees of varying quality make it feel a little better.

He finally brings it up on new year's day. Derek was already gone, and everyone else is hungover, still sleeping, but Stiles jolts upright at about eight from his pile of blankets on the floor and it wakes Scott from a dead sleep. Stiles explains the whole email scrying and lunch thing while they nibble on poptarts, a little ways from everyone else.

"What was he?" Scott asks, and fuck if that isn't a good question. One that should have come up if the pack emissary hadn't been so worried about like manners and propriety. 

"Ahhh...uhh. I don't know. He didn't really volunteer the information and I fled the scene of the crime." Stiles takes a bite and manages to get about two-thirds of a poptart into his mouth, and then continues while he eats. "To be clear my crime was messing up that whole meeting, dude, I am so sorry. You're better at this talking to people thing. How many werewolves have you talked down from a total meltdown? Your deescalation skills are just - hella." 

"Hey, it's okay. None of us are experts, we're just trying to figure stuff out. If you need help, we can help." Scott's frustratingly patient. A stupider man might think that Scott's just oblivious to the ripple effect of one bad diplomatic meeting; he's underestimating the damage because his emissary is a childhood friend, and one bad throwaway line could start a werewolf war all because of Stiles. But the problem is that Stiles, while stupid, isn't the stupidest person alive. Scott does know what could happen. He knows, and he still wants to be supportive and let his friend figure this out. "Do we know anything about this dude?"

Stiles gulps. "You know, I swear to god he was wearing body glitter? I know that sounds like a joke but it's not. He knows about the pack. And he has magic, right? The emails...he's gotta know more than we do about magic - which, granted, isn't actually that hard to accomplish because we're pretty much in the dark about everything all the time. Or it feels that way. It would be nice to get ahead of the curve and figure spark stuff out way before there's even a spark problem."

"You should do it. I could go with you -" 

"N - no. No. You should be here with everyone. The pack works because of you. You take care of the people in the pack and I'll try to take care of pack business."

Scott nods with a little reluctance and elbows him. "Next time you meet him you should stay nearby. Like the coffee shop near the high school. That way if you call, we can be there right away."

Someone shushes them from the couch and the two exchange guilty looks. Oh well. That was all Stiles needed. 

* * *

Of course, uh, it turns out that's not all he needs. He really needs a way to talk to Mael and he doesn't know how to. Stiles spends a week impatiently waiting for something to happen, like maybe this dude will just know that he wants to talk. But he doesn't get anymore emails, no mystical signs. After a week of anxiety and agony, he gives up and sits down at his laptop. 

Maybe...if he tries to reply it'll...work. There's no reason it should but he's at the end of his rope, and hey isn't this spark stuff supposed to be powered by belief? Something like that? Maybe if he just believes hard enough and replies to the email hard enough, somehow it'll get through. 

>   ~~ _You still in town? We should_~~

Nope, no. That feels too casual. He can't write an email like they're friends. Gotta be...more formal. Be the emissary. 

>   ~~ _Hey_~~

Stiles groans and shoves a cup of pencils off his desk in frustration. 

* * *

It takes another day for him to draft an email that's middling in quality. 

>   _Mael,_
> 
> _How was your solstice?_
> 
> _I spoke to the alpha and I'm ready to meet again._

That's about all he can put together in one email without sounding like a twelve year-old calling the school and pretending to be their parent so that they can call out sick. Before he sends it off, he spends a few moments pacing and speaking a ritualistic mantra aloud to his bedroom. 

"The email will send. This is...going to work." He rubs his forehead, trying to dispell the growing headache. "I believe in this email. It's the little email that could." 

He whirls around mid-pace and clicks send on the email before he can change his mind, and it disappears. It doesn't quite look like it sends properly, it's not in his outbox, but there's no error code and the email isn't on the screen anymore. Hopefully it's good enough. Stiles sits down in his chair hard, breathing out a sigh. His computer pings as he does. 

>   _Stiles. The solstice was a success. I'll find you tomorrow._

* * *

They meet in the little coffee shop like Scott suggested. It's cozier in here and the barista knows the pack well enough that she asks more than once if he's waiting for a date. That's good for mysterious meetings with strangers. If he goes missing she could be a great key witness for the cops. 

Mael doesn't keep him waiting for too long, but again he manages to sneak up on Stiles who's watching the door. He sits down slowly, already holding a delicate, metal thermos that smells herbal and earthy, and he smiles. Stiles smiles back but it's forced and tense. It feels bad and probably looks bad. This was a mistake. 

"Hello, Stiles. Have you made up your mind?" Mael looks calm, but his expression is surprisingly soft for someone who got run out on a few weeks prior. 

"My mind?" He's chewing on the wooden stirrer and struggles to put it down so he can be an adult for a few minutes. 

"About your nature. I can't help you unless I know what kind of person you are." 

"Right." Stiles shakes his head. "Yeah, I guess I'm okay with that. How do you do that? Can you just smell my nature, or...see it? I don't know how this works and you seem like you have all of your shit together and you know a lot. All I've done so far is make some ashes." 

Mael puts his drink down on the table. "And scry."

"Yeah, and scry. What? No, I thought that was you." 

"The first time, yes." He holds his hand out to Stiles again, offering it to him. "Yesterday, it was you. You can already do more than you think, it's just a matter of knowing that you can do it."

Awkward, heavy silence. 

Mael continues pressing him, insistent. "Would you like to know your nature?" 

"Yeah...yes." Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Stiles finally puts his hand in Mael's.  

"Good." The man's voice is muffled for only a moment, like he's talking through cloth. And his hand is like trying to hold onto ice. It's freezing cold and Stiles can feel the numbness stinging at his skin, all the way up to his elbow. He's royally fucked up, he knows he has. A feeling of doom crashes into him like windshear. And then it's over, and Mael is pulling his hand away, smiling kindly. "I see now." 

Stiles needs a second to catch his breath because what the hell. Actually, now that he thinks about it, fuck this spark stuff. His voice comes out hoarse when he responds. "You see?" 

"Yes." Mael picks up Stiles's coffee and pushes it gently into the boy's grasp. 

The warmth of the drink is a tonic on his poor hand, and greatly appreciated. Stiles has half a mind to shove his numb fingers directly in the drink, but he can't do that in front of polite company. He's gotta maintain whatever reputation that Scott's been building up, the one that brought this mysterious magic dude here to Beacon Hills. Be cool, be tough. Emissary Stiles.

"So?" He asks. Super cool. Really.

"Let me preface this with something that I hope will reassure you." Mael clears his throat softly and leans against the table, staring Stiles down in a really intense way. "I was raised with a certain understanding of the natural world, which is this. 

"There are three elements, from which all living things are made. All of us, including yourself, Stiles, are inextricably connected to these elements. Whether they want it or not. What makes each creature and each person different, what makes up their nature, is the strength of each connection. They may feel a connection to an element, but be unable to harness it because it's too tenuous - too fragile. Their nature lends to a stronger connection to another. Do you understand?" 

He really, really does not, but he nods. "Sure? Maybe."

"The earth, the water, and the air." 

Stiles can feel a migraine building behind his eyes. He mutters something damming about the sun, the moon, the truth and dumb things coming in threes. To himself. 

Raising an eyebrow, but not stopping to comment, Mael continues. "Elements are not evil. Neither the earth, the water, nor the air are your enemy. Your nature is made up of manifestations of elements, and regardless of what they may be, they are not evil."

"This really isn't inspiring confidence, dude." Stiles grips the handle on his mug tighter. "This feels like you're about to tell me I'm secretly the grim reaper and I gotta kill people. I thought you said this was supposed to reassure me?" 

Mael breaks from his placating and kind smile to look just shy of apologetic. "It is."

"Okay." It takes a lot of self-control to not tell this potentially powerful magic user just how much his pep talk fucking sucks. "Just - it's fine, just tell me my nature. I'm a big kid, I can handle it."

The man eyes him cautiously, like he's still worried for Stiles's reaction. "This may not make sense right away, but you will come to understand it as you come to understand yourself. What I saw when I touched your nature was pain. Your nature is wounds and blood, burns and frostbite, an injured deer, and a starving wolf. There were others, as well, much smaller; the pine forest in autumn, freezing rain, and the hearth, but most of it was pain. You'll probably learn more with reflection." 

Stiles takes a big drink of his coffee to stave off the cold and lonely feeling of utter disappointment. And a little bit of despair. Weakly, he says, "Intense. What about you?" 

"My nature?" Mael frowns deeply. Fuck. 

"You don't have to - sorry, I was just kind of hoping I'm not the only weirdo with some kind of freaky death magic as my spark. You don't have to tell me." 

He stares at Stiles, brow furrowed in thought, once again like he's solving a puzzle. "There are some things that give power simply by knowing them, Stiles. Other people's natures is one of them. You would be wise to keep the details of your nature a secret, and not to ask for the details of another's nature. Given that I regard you as somewhat of a student, I will say that I'm not unfamiliar with frostbite. One of the iterations of my nature is silence after a blizzard." 

Every single gear in Stiles's brain is spinning like crazy trying to keep up with this conversation and trying to process everything he's learning. Only a small part of him realizes how badly he's fucked up by asking about Mael's nature and that he shouldn't keep asking questions, because the rest of it is trying to figure out what the fuck 'an injured deer' has to do with his spark. Something suddenly clicks. "A blizzard? Is that why you first came on the winter solstice? It's easier for you, because your magic is like...winter-y." 

If Mael were a werewolf he probably would have growled at Stiles. He's not, but he still kind of...bristles. His presence does. He doesn't move at all but it feels like he's bigger, more imposing. Stiles can almost imagine a halo of angry magic expanding out behind him. 

"Yes, Stiles." Mael's voice is perfectly even, maybe conversational. "Careful, spark. Some people may not be as forgiving as I am. _I_ know you lack knowledge and experience, but others will not care. I think we should continue this conversation at another time. You need to think about your nature, and I have other duties." 

"Yes, absolutely. I totally understand." Stiles starts to get up from his seat, but stops himself. "Wait, actually I...just have one more question if that's okay. I know I'm new at this emissary thing so I'm making a lot of mistakes but I told Scott I'd ask."

Silence from Mael. He takes that as an okay to go ahead. 

"What are you? Not human - right?"

The man sighs like Stiles is a beloved pet who's peed on the carpet again. "No, not human. I belong to the Unseelie Court. Let's meet again in two days, in the forest. I'm invested in teaching you a few things, and one of those is summoning." 

And he leaves, Stiles just stands there shaking his numb right hand. From behind the bar, the barista gives him a sympathetic look, probably thinking that whatever date he's been on didn't go very well. She's not entirely wrong. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for your kind comments guys!! I really didn't expect anyone to be reading this in the year of our lord 2019 lmao so any comments at all are a huge and very cool surprise. I know this bit is very conversation-heavy, and the next part probably will be as well. I'm just kind of following the rabbit down the hole with barely any plans, and instead just doing whatever sounds really fun in the moment and it gives me a lot more motivation


	3. Stronghold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek has his arms crossed and this frown like he's angry, but he furrows his brow in confusion and that's a very specific face that Stiles knows is just for him when he's done something or doing something stupid. 
> 
> "You're hurt." He says it like it's obvious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey it's derek! i really thought I'd spend like 3 paragraphs on this stuff but uh...turns out it's the whole chapter now. oh well

He goes to the loft, partly because it feels safer than his own house. It's not that his house isn't protected, he's got mountain ash in the walls and he's pretty sure he knows where his dad keeps the wolfsbane bullets, but it's...different. The loft is about as secluded as you can while still being in the city, and just looks like a stronghold. It's imposing with all that bare brick and concrete everywhere. Plus he has this ingrained feeling of safety associated with it, because when he's there it's usually because they're having a pack meeting or all hanging out. Security in numbers, and all that. 

It's all in his head though. The loft isn't always full of pack, as proven by the fact that when Stiles barges in the only person there is Derek. They ignore each other for a good minute, Derek doing whatever grumpy people do over at the table, and Stiles throwing himself face first onto one of the new couches so that he can mope or maybe take a nap. It's a blissful sixty seconds of silence. But it has to end, of course, because even though this is the pack stronghold it's still technically someone's bedroom and he's intruding.

He does actually hear Derek sneak up on him, which he might be proud of if he weren't absolutely certain that the werewolf with senses a hundred times more powerful than his was making noise on purpose so as not to spook Stiles. At some point he must have picked up on Stiles's near-frequent heart attacks from friendly jumpscares and decided to be accommodating. Hey he might not be the best conversationalist but he has his moments. It's nice of him to be conscientious about the nerves of one delicate human being. 

"What's wrong with you?" Less nice of him. 

"What's not?" Stiles mumbles into a couch pillow, which is only there at Lydia's behest. Thank god for Lydia. When Derek doesn't respond right away he turns over to face him. "Why - what'd I do? Should I have knocked? I just thought like you guys can hear me from a mile a way, what with the furry ears, so if you didn't want anyone over you could just lock the giant door."

Derek has his arms crossed and this frown like he's angry, but he furrows his brow in confusion and that's a very specific face that Stiles knows is just for him when he's done something or doing something stupid. 

"You're hurt." He says it like it's obvious. 

Well, fuck. Stiles doesn't remember getting hurt, but he trusts literally anyone in the pack's senses far more than he does his own fleeting ADHD-addled memory, so he must be forgetting something. He tries to go back over everything he's done for the past couple of days, which is mostly worrying about this emissary stuff. There's no concerning injuries - a few bruises from his own clumsiness, per the usual, but nothing with blood. 

"...No?" But he's not sure, and he doesn't sound sure. 

This clearly isn't the response that Derek was expecting, because he eases up on the angry frown and leans harder into the exasperated and confused eyebrows. He's gotta be careful with those. If someone even so much as mentions a riddle or proffers a sudoku puzzle, he might not be able to see past them. He takes a step back from the couch, obviously inviting Stiles to stand up and explain himself. "I can smell the blood. What did you do?" 

Now Stiles is nervous. If he did do something and doesn't remember it, that means he's missing time somewhere. It doesn't take any time to start panicking. He doesn't get up, opting instead to chew on the inside of his cheek and go over the past week again. And again. Until Derek gets tired of waiting. 

"Stiles." Derek, perpetually angry and defensive werewolf, unfolds his arms and oh man Stiles doesn't like the look of that. In all likelihood this is going one of two ways; either Derek tries to be open and sympathetic and give some kind of half-cocked speech about pack, or he wants to smell Stiles, and it's difficult to say which would be more painful. 

Guessing that it's the latter, Stiles drags himself up off the couch and stands with his shoulders high, almost to his ears, and tense. Derek leans towards him, and then finds the arm's length of distance between them unhelpful and steps closer. 

Werewolves are very...nose-forward. It doesn't take very long to catch on to that, but something that has taken a lot of time, a lot of painfully awkward pack pizza nights, is being okay with the whole smelling and scenting thing. Scott insisted on trying to make it a normal, totally not weird thing for his and the other werewolves' sanity. Which, for the record, Stiles fully supported. But just because he knows in theory that smelling exclusively of anxiety when someone's scenting him doesn't really help, doesn't mean he's got it figured out just yet. He's getting better at it, with practice.

Not with Derek, though. Mostly because Derek refuses to participate. He doesn't say no, but he doesn't get invited per se, because Scott feels too weird trying to force the former-alpha to do anything he doesn't explicitly volunteer to do. Which means he gets politely left alone at pack meetings. 

Derek smelling him is weird, obviously. There's no way it wouldn't be weird. But honestly, it's not the worst experience hes had. It's a lot better than the first time Jackson scented him. Scott had finally persuaded Jackson to participate in pack bonding, but oops it just so happened to be the day that Stiles spent four hours at Lydia's house studying for senior finals, and it devolved into a growling match very quickly. 

Being a born werewolf probably helps. He's likely had a lot of practice being respectful of people's space while totally invading it. Stiles can't claim to know what's going on in Derek's head, but it seems like he's better at not getting caught up in smelling, so that he can pay attention to the way that Stiles freezes up in fear when he so much as breathes too hard. Sorry, dude. He's doing his best. It's hard to be cool while being circled like prey. 

But Derek's a good sport about the whole thing. He even grabs the sleeve of Stiles's jacket, rather than just his wrist, so that he can hold it up. Very courteous, and he's grateful, especially because that's the hand Mael did his spooky magic on and it still hurts like hell. 

"Why does your hand smell like blood?" Derek stares him down, but his tone is far less accusatory than expected.

"This feels like...nicer...than it should be. This is - this is suspicious, right?" Stiles is trying to sound light-hearted about his own predicament, but it comes out too shaky. "If I smell like blood and it's not my blood, shouldn't you be asking who I murdered or where the body is? I'm not saying I killed someone but, Der, if this was the other way around I'd have been on the you-committed-a-murder train ten minutes ago."

Derek raises an eyebrow at him. Oh, right. Stiles almost forgot that he's the token skinny twerp of the pack. Out of everyone, he's probably the second to least likely to commit murder. Not because he lacks murderous intent, he just doesn't have the means or the constitution for it. 

"It's not old blood. It smells fresh, and it smells like yours." Derek patiently lets go of his sleeve. 

"Mine? Ha, how do you know what my blood smells like." 

He doesn't get a reply. It's clear that Derek is waiting for a real answer to his question, however. So he should say something. 

Something. Anything.

"I don't...know." He looks at his own hand like it's betrayed him. "I haven't done anything today besides go to a meeting. Pack business, you know? I'm trying out this emissary thing, talking to...people. Because even though I have the worst conversational skills, besides yourself, I've got this - the stupid spark thing." 

Even though Derek almost definitely smelled Mael on him, he tilts his head to act surprised when Stiles mentions the meeting. "What did you do?" 

"I don't know! We just talked and he said that my spark is pain - and evil." Stiles blinks, and the werewolf is standing uncomfortably close, nose almost touching fabric of his shirt. Derek is just far enough from his neck, hovering over his shoulder, that it's technically not scenting, but it might as well be. "Well actually, he very specifically said it wasn't evil, but it's kind of hard to believe right after being told that my spark is pain and dead things. I can't believe I'm telling you this, because I wasn't sure I was even going to tell Scott, but I just ramble when I panic-"

"I know." 

"Yeah! And anyways, he said my spark was death or something and I think he gave my hand magical frostbite. Then he left." Sighing, Stiles pulls his hand away and cradles it against his chest. "We're supposed to meet tomorrow." 

Derek steps back and looks him up and down, clearly thinking about something. He must not come up with an answer, though, because all he does is reach out and pat Stiles on the shoulder. 

* * *

They consult Scott. Or. Stiles consults Scott, calling him over to the loft so that he too can sniff at the weird human with an invisible injury. They give up on trying to solve this particular mystery, after arguing and eating the last bag of microwaveable popcorn together, and they decide to take him to Deaton like he's the pack's pet dog who keeps whining. 

Despite being a veterinarian of many years, Deaton's apparently not very good at breaking bad news. Or maybe he's just doesn't care enough to blunt the edge when he tells Stiles it's just his spark that smells. 

"This is beyond my expertise, Stiles, but if this stranger can be believed, the smell may be your spark - or rather your magic. It may no longer be just a spark." Deaton looks at Scott pointedly. "I don't think it's in your best interest to continue meeting this person. It seems like your magic is...for lack of a better word, bleeding. He may have done some damage that we can't see while investigating." 

"I agree." Derek is leaning against the wall in the shadowy corner of the room, looking borderline concerned. "You don't know what he is." 

"Hey! Do you know how hard it is to ask what flavor of monster someone is without sounding like an asshole?" Stiles waves his injured hand in Derek's direction. "I did my best. He said he belonged to a - a court? I don't know what that means, but I can guess he doesn't mean a basketball court. I haven't had a chance to do research.

"Besides, at this point I think it might be a really bad idea to just brush him off. He's just got this rage aura going on. Not like you, Derek. You're like a all rage, all the time kind of guy. He's got like a cooler, restrained rage thing going on. But I already pissed him off and he didn't threaten to rip my throat out or anything. I feel like if he was going to kill me he would have already done it." 

"Don't be so sure," Derek retorts. He's glaring, but the corner of his mouth is turned up in careful amusement. "He hasn't been trapped with you, while you run your mouth, for several hours."

Stiles turns to him fully, acutely aware that this inquisition is Derek's fault and no one else's. "Ha! A comedian in the peanut gallery! Thank you. What would we do without you, Derek?" 

"Scott would have killed you within weeks." 

"Hey!" Scott interjects to defend himself. "Guys. Listen. We need to figure out what we're going to do. If Stiles says it's too dangerous to back out then we need a plan. Someone should go with him-" 

"No! Come on, I think it's better if I go alone. He's harmless if I just - if I go along with it and see what he wants to teach me. He just wants to teach me! We're meeting in the forest to do summoning I guess." Exhausted, Stiles hops up on to Deaton's exam table. It's then that the veterinarian takes his leave, satisfied that he's no longer needed and unwilling to watch as his various vet accoutrements are abused. "That's our territory." 

"Stay on the preserve." Derek steps away from the wall so he can crowd closer, and it looks kind of like he's sniffing in Stiles's direction again. He looks to Scott. "I can keep an eye on him." 

"Not that having a bodyguard isn't badass, _but_ can you keep an eye on me from like a very comfortable distance? Phones exist. You guys remember phones, don't you? I know howling is cool, but we still live in the twenty-first century." 

Scott sidles over to Stiles as well, and hugs him. The contrast between Derek and Scott is even more obvious now, as Scott scents him casually, and comfortably, by pulling him into a warm hug. Instead of being an uncomfortable experience, it's reaffirming. He can feel something pulling at his chest, acknowledging the pack bonds that he has with his friend - and, yes, Derek too, even if he tries to act like he's not part of this. 

"If Derek wants to, he can stay near the forest. Maybe post up in the - house. If that's okay." Scott looks guilty for bringing up the Hale ruins, but it's one of the few landmarks in the forest. "Are you sure you don't want anyone with you, Stiles? It could be dangerous." 

"I'll...take some mountain ash. But I think it'll be better if I'm alone." Stiles briefly considered bringing his dad's gun but the idea of having a gun on his person immediately makes him nauseous. It'd be a bad idea. 

"Alright." Scott smiles, but it's crooked with concern for his friend. "But I'm gonna let people know to text you. You have to check in with me or anyone in the pack, so you don't just go missing." 


	4. Monterey Cypress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His brain is a rabid beast in the light of day, and any of his non-magical dreams, leading him on an endless hunt with no rest. It's exhausting. For anyone else, these dreams would be hellish. The eerie and impermeable silence could be maddening if it weren't such a balm, a well-earned break from himself. In the landscape of his dream forest, Stiles stands in the frigid air, barefoot on the waterlogged earth, and does absolutely nothing. There's a quiet here that he just can't achieve in the real world, and he won't let it go to waste. He can stand still for hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no see! :> sorry about the wait. sometimes you chase inspiration, sometimes it chases you
> 
> EDIT: someone anonymously asked me to tag for hurt stiles. I already have Chose Not to Use Warnings and a tag for canon typical injuries. unless there's a good reason for that to be tagged, I will not be adding it. especially because this is a lowkey thing I'm goofing around with, and I dont want the attention/exposure that comes with a tag like that.

It's been years since Stiles died and came back, a hollow sacrifice for the Nemeton, but he still has these dreams. The landscape of the Beacon Hills forest haunts him, and he's gotten used to it. It's routine now, waking up in the middle of the woods with no sense of direction or time. 

His brain is a rabid beast in the light of day, and any of his non-magical dreams, leading him on an endless hunt with no rest. It's exhausting. For anyone else, these dreams would be hellish. The eerie and impermeable silence could be maddening if it weren't such a balm, a well-earned break from himself. In the landscape of his dream forest, Stiles stands in the frigid air, barefoot on the waterlogged earth, and does absolutely nothing. There's a quiet here that he just can't achieve in the real world, and he won't let it go to waste. He can stand still for hours. 

The only stain on the whole thing is the presence of the Nemeton. 

He knows it's there. At some point he'll turn around and see the dried and rotting stump, its roots tangling into the dirt as it tries to soak up even the smallest amount of magic. He can feel the oppressive aura that it gives off, like a detestable smell carried on the wind and fog. He hates this stupid tree that doesn't know how to stay dead, and he hates what it's done to his pack, so he refuses to turn and look at it. 

Stiles knows something's different about this dream. He can't put his finger on it, though, not until he finally tires of standing. He goes to sit, not on the cold ground but on the stump of the Nemeton, or perhaps its roots, and instead finds himself backing against solid and living tree. 

He finally turns, dread boiling in his chest. 

Not the Nemeton, but certainly a nemeton. This tree is gigantic. He hasn't traveled far from Beacon Hills, and he's not much of a tree man but this doesn't look like the kind of tree you'd find on the preserve. It doesn't look like it should have made it to this size, because the trunk and branches are warped and twisted, probably by wind. The longer he looks, the more he realizes the scene is wrong. He can smell the brine of ocean air, the ground is rocky and dotted with boulders, and small trees are growing from them. It feels like the dream is changing in front of him, and it's making him dizzy. 

He leans heavily against the strange nemeton, trying to catch his breath. Stiles doesn't know where he is but he needs to keep moving, he needs to make his way back to the pack. Ignoring the spike of pain, he pulls his hand away from his ribs so that he can push off of the tree and stagger away. He leaves blood behind on the bark of the tree as he wanders into this strange, sparse forest. 

* * *

 Derek wakes him from his dream turned nightmare, which is fucking creepy but also thank god. Usually the whole climbing through his window while he's sleeping shtick is a big no for Stiles, but the violation of his usually pleasant dream landscape leaves him shaken and grateful for any escape. 

The dream feels like a portent, bad news coating his skin and weighing down his chest. Or - it may not actually be the night terrors making it hard to breathe. There is a chance it could be the large, and very strong werewolf pinning Stiles to the wall of his own bedroom. 

Aw, he looks...concerned? That's probably nice, though it immediately makes Stiles worried that he should also be concerned. Derek isn't as easily spooked as the rest of them, so Stiles frequently takes his cues from the man, at least in supernatural situations. And it certainly doesn't bode well that whatever he was doing in his sleep required sneaking into his room and mandhandling him. 

Once Derek seemed to realize that Stiles was fully awake, fully cognizant, he let go. But he didn't really move away. Still drowsy and used to Scott's wolfy habits, Stiles unwittingly tilts his head away, sighing, inviting Derek to scent him, the same as he would for a worried Scott. He doesn't even realize he's done it until Derek refuses the offer, backing away quickly like a caught child. 

Ouch. The rejection is weirdly upsetting, but the flood of embarrassment he feels about the Everything Else of this situation covers the feeling up. Especially as he remembers that he's wearing some pretty uninspired pajamas. Sweatpants with a noticeable series of rips and holes along the side, and a very faded, definitely stained t-shirt with the poster art for The Thing on it. It's not his most professional look, that's for sure. 

"Uh, hey," he says lamely, as he casts about, looking for the time so he can see just how early it is. The alarm clock on his bedside table is askew but reads 6:13 AM in menacing red. Way too early, is the answer. Wasn't getting up before 10:30 supposed to get easier as you got older? Maybe he just lucked out and got the irresponsible sleepy gene. Stiles turns sharply to Derek. "Have you been hanging around outside my window? How did you - why were you here?"

"You didn't say what time your meeting is supposed to be." Derek has the incredible gift of being able to look sheepish, his hands shoved into his pockets, avoiding Stiles's gaze, while also maintaining his smug werewolf façade. The potent combination of smug smile and just the smug aura that his leather jacket gives off. 

Stiles scratches at his neck, part of him hoping to claw away the crawling feeling under and on his skin. "So, what - you've just been angrily standing in some dark shadows waiting for me to wake up? Dude, I thought you knew me better than to show up this early." 

"Apparently not." Derek's speech is stilted and he practically flinches at his own words.

Stiles isn't sure what to say to that. He'd like to go back to bed, get another solid three hours of sleep, but that would mean kicking Derek out and Derek is serious about his bullshit. He will stand outside in the cold and the fog for as long as he has to, if only to prove that he's serious. Getting ready for the day also inevitably would require showering and getting dressed, and subsequently would also require Derek not being in his bedroom. 

Maybe he should invite him in? It's not exactly his place to give the go ahead for anyone to 'make themselves at home'. Even if he's an adult, it's still his dad's house. Stiles can't bear to move out and leave his dad alone in this big house - or worse, he moves out and his dad sells the house to move in to something smaller and better suited to a single, empty-nester. 

Well, if Derek breaks something in a furry rage, Stiles will just throw him under the bus. "Uh, why don't you...come in - I mean you're already - you can make some coffee if you want to hang out. 'Cause I gotta shower. Just so you're not, you know, waiting for some slacker human to get ready. And, by the way, I didn't say when the meeting is because I don't actually know...Mael just said 'morning' and I'm interpreting that as liberally as I like."

Derek shrugs a little, intensely focused on everything in the room except for the person in it. Like Stiles is a ghost and Derek's a hard boiled detective hellbent on solving his murder. That'll just have to be good enough. Stiles grabs a towel and flees to the shower, only hoping that Derek will have had the good sense to not be in his room by the time he finishes. 

* * *

It turns out Derek does have some good sense in him, but Stiles had been pretty sure about that already. Once he's dressed and no longer smells like bad dream sweat, he's pleasantly surprised to find that there is a comically large mug of coffee waiting for him on the dining table downstairs. 

"Ha ha, very funny. You guys know I got the joke when you gave me the mug, right? Wow a bowl shaped like a mug, because Stiles drinks too much coffee, hilarious. And even more hilarious the hundredth time. This better not be my dad's decaf coffee." Stiles begrudgingly slumps down into the chair and picks up the drink anyways. "Also, thanks."

Derek appears from living room, carrying his own empty mug into the kitchen, presumably to wash it. "It's the decaf." 

"Just kidding, fuck you." He still manages to drink a third of the scalding coffee before Derek comes back to glower from the corner of the dining room. 

"You don't need caffeine."

"Like hell, dude." Stiles knows that being hunched desperately over a giant mug of coffee makes him look like an addict but he's too tired to try and look sane right now. "You know how expensive adderal is? Caffeine is way cheaper and tastes good. I gotta self-medicate with something." 

"If you don't get yourself killed at your meeting today, and you still want caffeine, I'll buy you whatever coffee you want." 

Looking up from his coffee, Stiles tries briefly to do some intuition, psychoanalysis bullshit or whatever to figure out what has Derek so concerned. It doesn't work. Dude's a furry brick wall. He'll just have to figure it out the old fashioned way. "What's up?"

Derek just looks back at him, almost startled by the question.

"Why do you think I'm going to die? If you've got some weird werewolf instincts telling you something you gotta tell me. You're making me nervous and you're probably making yourself all upset about it, so tell me and I'll like...do something about it." He slurps his coffee loudly to take the edge off of what is basically a command for Derek to spill. Stiles may not fully understand pack politics, not like Derek, but he knows better than to tell a former alpha what to do straight. He has to soften it, make it a little playful, but not so far as to make it not a command. 

He doesn't know if it's the pointed question or if it's the answer that makes Derek sick, but he sure looks unwell as he fidgets. 

"You don't know how...frustrating you are," he says finally, his eyes dark. "You're walking blindly into a meeting with a creature you don't know anything about and you - smell."

Stiles makes like he's too busy drinking his coffee to be listening so the werewolf can get whatever this is off his chest. 

"You smell like death. And blood. It was getting worse while you were sleeping." Derek looks like he wants to say more but he finishes with that and keeps shifting his weight like he's close to leaving. 

"Well, you know me, I've gotta maintain my position as pack nuisance. If I'm not pissing someone off then you guys might start fighting each other. Uh, but I'm sorry about the blood thing." Hefting his mug, still half full, Stiles moves the conversation into the kitchen. "I can't really fix smelling bad. But rest assured I'm sufficiently terrified of my gross blood smell and of dying in general. You're right, Mael is dangerous and scary but if he made me smell like I'm dead maybe he can fix it? I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing, dude. I just know I gotta do it."

Derek glowers from the doorway. Stiles is lost. He fumbles blindly for something he can't see. Derek's head snaps up to stare at him. "Stop that. Whatever you're doing, it's worse." 

Stiles takes a bagel out of the fridge and shoves it into his mouth without hesitation. He puts his hands out placatingly. "What am I doing?"

This is a bad move on his part because it immediately makes Derek look like he's close to having a meltdown. He snarls gently. "I. Don't. Know. But the smell -"

"Okay, sorry! Sorry about your sensitive wolf nose. How's this - if you can smell blood from, uh, like a mile away from the meeting you can come kill me yourself. Hmm?" He doesn't give Derek the space to argue, darting upstairs to grab his bag and then pulling  his alpha-appointed guardian by the sleeve out the front door. "Come on fur brain, let's get this over with. I want that coffee." 


	5. Clumsy, Ungraceful, and Loud in Great Measure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's admiring his own handiwork, as it were, when he notices out of the corner of his eye a small and frayed red string that leads to Mael. As he turns towards it, however, the deep color fades from it. It turns grey, and then to a metallic silvery color, becoming almost like liquid as it weaves itself into a small chain. When it's solid once more, it looks closer in shape to a necklace with no pendant or otherwise, speckled with frost and a light film of condensation. Stiles touches it where it's wrapped around his right wrist and he can feel its coolness, its sturdiness, as if it were real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!! here's some more for you :>

He leaves Derek pretty close to his house, with explicit instructions to not go overboard on the worried wolf thing, but to still be cautious. It's kind of a cop-out on his part, displacing the blame onto Derek so that no matter how things end up going, it's never Stiles's fault. Either Derek is overreacting or he's underreacting, or in an unlikely scenario nothing goes wrong at all. 

Even though he's done it so many times before, and technically there's a werewolf tailing him, it's weird walking into the forest alone. He doesn't know what to do with himself, or his hands, besides fidget nervously - and, okay yeah, that's par for the course for him but it's just odd to be here after his dream, waiting for someone to show up. 

He walks for twenty minutes before he starts to wonder if he should have tried to scry to Mael again before going and wandering through trees that have definitely held some ill will towards him at one point or another. This whole emissary thing is about communicating with other preternatural factions, he's pretty sure, so this may have been a big L for him on that front. 

He doesn't stop until he comes across a little clearing where grass is growing quite well despite the unusually cold winter, maybe because without the towering trees and branches the space gets just enough sunlight to sustain it. There are even a few flowers, tiny and pale but still there. Stiles just wants to take a break, check his phone, see if there are any emails he missed or maybe even try to scry via text. He doesn't think it'll be as easy as the email since he doesn't have a text to reply to, but it may be well worth it to try. He hasn't stopped for more than a moment before Mael makes his entrance.

Most of the pack, especially Stiles, tends to be clumsy, ungraceful, and loud in great measure, so really the only person that Mael can be compared to in his poise is Lydia. It's a close rival, but while Lydia has a kind of stiff, composed and beautiful poise, Mael seems unnaturally relaxed and at ease, inhumanly fluid in his movements. Stiles only realizes that he's approaching because he spots him out of the corner of his eye. The guy seems strangely adept at avoiding branches and leaves what might make too much sound underfoot. 

And, wow, it's a huge difference seeing Mael standing in the cold, early light of the woods as compared to seeing him sitting in some dinky cafe. The scattered light filtering in between the barren tree branches makes the glittering quality of his skin stand out, and Stiles realizes that he's never noticed the man's clothing until now. Maybe because they'd been sitting down, or perhaps Mael had been wearing much more pedestrian clothes before, either way he didn't recall any of the man's other outfits. And this one is... Well, it's very formal; a long tunic with a high collar made of very pretty and black fabric - maybe silk, but that's a shot in the dark because Stiles doesn't know what silk looks like honestly. The tunic is decorated with delicate, embroidered silver patterns like curling vines and flowers, and layered over it is a very loose, sheer poncho or cape-looking thing. 

It's nice. And it makes Stiles look severely underdressed. 

"Stiles." Is all Mael says by way of a greeting. 

In return Stiles raises his hand in a little half-hearted and surprised wave. Man, he really needs to buy some nicer clothes. He's never really bothered, because his job requires business casual attire at best, and that isn't really enforced since they don't see people in person a lot. The only reason he had bought anything other than sweatshirts and jeans in the past was for one-off dates and the occasional job interview. It's stuff that never gets worn again and lost to the dark of his closet. Or it becomes emergency clothes, which usually means bleeding on it and then throwing it out as soon as possible. 

Maybe the pack closet has something he can just borrow. There's an ever growing collection of random items of clothing that get left at the loft and kind of become communal property, shared for movie nights or less gruesome emergencies. 

Mael approaches him carefully, staying around the edge of the clearing and observing. "If you still wish to participate in this exchange of information, this will be our classroom - or an approximation of one." 

"Yeah." Stiles sighs a little to himself, and the rest of the woods around him. "Yeah, I thought I'd see what the deal is at least. I don't have a lot of...information that I can offer, honestly. I get the feeling you know a lot more about...everything than me. I'm just the human in a pack of werewolves." 

"But you _are_ in the McCall pack, of that there is no doubt." Mael continues circling Stiles for a few more steps, examining him in his periphery. Finally, he stops, and seems to stand a little taller. "Here is my offer, Emissary Stiles. I will teach you, as it is taught by my people, how to summon your bonds, and what I will get in return is seeing those bonds firsthand. If you agree to this, perhaps more deals can be arranged in the future. 

"You should know, it is not lightly that I offer you information like this. It's been a long time since anyone in the mortal realm has been entrusted with the practices of the people of our court. And we would expect the same kind of discretion from you as we would our own."

Stiles isn't really sure what mortal realm is supposed to mean here except maybe to point out how disconnected most of the pack, minus Derek, are from other preternatural beings. They're always operating with little to no information about their opponents. They could _really_ use a political relationship with an entity or faction that has information. And this is one hell of an offer - one that he's pretty sure he can't delay a decision on. If he doesn't accept now, he doubts very much that he'll be able to accept it at all based on Mael's whole attitude and aura of permanence. He's not good with split second decisions like this - he tends to pick the stupidest option and regret it, unless someone's really in mortal danger.

Finally, he squares his shoulders and holds out a hand to Mael. "Okay."

With a small catlike smile, Mael takes his hand, and this time he smells what Derek had been talking about. The sharp, burning pain of frost on his hand - thanks to what Stiles can only assume is Mael's spark or magic or whatever - is paired with the taste of blood on the back of his tongue and the metallic smell of it too. It's only because he's somewhat prepared for it that he doesn't immediately worry that he's somehow been horribly injured by a handshake. The blood must be his magic then, which kinda sucks. Mael gets to smell like ice and snow, and Stiles has to smell like something dying. 

And then it's over. Mael backs away to the edge of the clearing again, looking very much the cat that got the cream. In a sweeping gesture, he points out the dirt and the grass and the little flowers growing around Stiles and sighs. "This is a circle. It's a true circle, crafted by chaos and the natural world itself. It's one of the few things that helps to focus one's nature and magic when they're too inexperienced to do it alone. Your magic understood this when you did not, and that is why you came here, and not anywhere else in the forest. Sit down." 

Stiles does as he's told, plopping down on the grass and letting his bag down from his shoulder. Mael very carefully moves closer to pick up his things and place them safely outside of the circle, leaned against a tree but still visible. 

"For this rite," Mael continues, "or ritual, or spell - whatever you want to call it - you will sit and you will close your eyes and concentrate on your pack. Pick one, who's location you know. One that may be nearby."

Worry starts to drip down his spine, and Stiles glances sidelong at Mael in an attempt to tell if the man knows that Derek is loitering somewhere in the woods. Of course his expression is impossible to read and Stiles has to let it be, close his eyes and concentrate. The only person he's really certain about the location of is his dad, but he doesn't know if his dad counts as pack exactly so he flails mentally and picks Derek. He's gotta be...somewhere West or South of here maybe. Hopefully. 

Mael sounds a little more distant when he speaks again. "Now imagine something connecting you to them. Anything. In any place. I would not influence how your bonds should look, you must decide for yourself, but you need to picture them in great detail. The color, the texture. You already know the connection is there, and your magic can already see it, but you need to see it with your eyes this time." 

Ugh. This isn't really helpful. Derek is maybe the worst person to have picked for this experiment, because the nature of their bond or relationship eludes him a lot, and because Stiles is on the spot and he can't think of a lot of different things to connect two people. Handcuffs? The worlds longest and most useless pair of handcuffs? Maybe rope? Or...string. Maybe just string. He imagines the string that he's used in the past, for his wall of sleuthing. That makes things easier, because his color coded system works perfectly for this. Derek is red. He's a very long and very tangled red string. 

The barest hint of a coppery smell hits his nose, and well that must mean he's done something right, so Stiles opens his eyes. 

And, no, yeah that's a lot of string. There's red everywhere, caught up in his clothes and crisis-crossing his arms. The string that he knows leads to Derek peels off from around his neck and Stiles thinks there must be some kind of weird symbolism going on there that his conscious mind is too stupid to pick up on but he doesn't care because there's green too. There are two very neat and green strings that wrap once around his left palm and then lead off into the woods. He's pretty sure that's supposed to be Scott and his dad. He was only trying to do Derek, so this should be weird, but he's too relieved that his relationships with them are good enough for green. 

He's admiring his own handiwork, as it were, when he notices out of the corner of his eye a small and frayed red string that leads to Mael. As he turns towards it, however, the deep color fades from it. It turns grey, and then to a metallic silvery color, becoming almost like liquid as it weaves itself into a small chain. When it's solid once more, it looks closer in shape to a necklace with no pendant or otherwise, speckled with frost and a light film of condensation. Stiles touches it where it's wrapped around his right wrist and he can feel its coolness, its sturdiness, as if it were real.

Mael doesn't comment, only raises an eyebrow in judgement. Maybe the mess of string isn't up to snuff for someone who can summon bonds. It certainly looks...messy. And it feels heavy. At some point it might be smart to sort through all of these and try to untangle them, but it may take more than just physically untangling them. 

"Huh..." Stiles says eventually, dumbfounded by all of this. 

"I suppose you need no further instruction, then." Mael walks the circumference of the clearing again, his eyebrows furrowed just ever so slightly as he seems to consider what Stiles has done. Eventually he waves his hand dismissively. "You may get rid of the others, leave only ours. I've seen what I need to see." 

Stiles does his best to follow instruction, blinking and letting as many of his bonds disappear without letting go of all of them. He's inexperienced and fumbling, though, and quickly realizes that it's a feat and a half to just hold one bond present. They hold like bunches in his brain, a handful of strings for people he's thinking about at present, a handful for people he's spoken to in the last week. The best he can do is have just Mael, Scott, and Derek out and visible at once, no fewer. He shrugs helplessly up at Mael, who only sighs. 

"Alright. Our deal is concluded. You've been instructed on how to summon your bonds, and I have seen your bonds. We've completed our business." As Mael speaks, the silver chain that is Stiles's connection to him fades and unweaves back into brilliant red string. Neat. 

Feeling a little lost and certainly incredulous, Stiles starts to stand up. "That's it?" 

"Yes, it is. For now. Is there something else you desire?" Mael looks curious, but ready to leave. He's half-turned away from the human and another step away from the clearing. 

"Maybe. You said there are more things to help with...spells and stuff?" Stiles nervously scuffs his shoes on the grass, trying to figure out what he wants before saying too much. It's hard to decide though. He has so many questions about all this nature stuff and if it has any impact on what kind of spells he can do or if everything is always the same for everyone. 

Mael turns back towards him, with his palms out, almost like he's trying to show that he's unarmed. "There are a few ways to aid in focusing your magic. Some are more accessible to you, some will not be accessible at all because of the kind of magic you have. I have to admit that I would be interested in making another deal with you, and moreover I'd like a long lasting, beneficial arrangement between my court and your pack." 

Stiles isn't sure about all that. He barely knows Mael, doesn't know what the guy is, and certainly doesn't want to make any calls for the whole pack without consulting the whole pack first, but at the same time he can't help this itching, out of control feeling. He feels a time pressure that he's not even sure exists but he's never been one to spurn his gut feelings. He's the son of a cop and he's not putting down this lead. 

He presses on, only kind of ignoring the offer of a long term alliance of some kind with Mael's 'court'. "You seem like some kind of supernatural lawyer type guy, although you don't dress like one. So, what kind of deal do we need to make for you to teach me how to get a focus I can use. Just - just one, as long as it works, because running out into the woods in the middle of the night or something in order to do some freaky witch shit by myself is either going to get my friends killed or it's just going to make me look like more of a weirdo than I already am. What do I have to...pay you with?" 

"Usually," Mael starts, and then pauses, considering his words, "I prefer to trade like for like. Knowledge for knowledge. However, in this case, I think it would be most beneficial if you, the emissary of the McCall pack, were presented to the court, along with your alpha. We could not hope to have a relationship with your pack if you were not introduced to our society." 

"Introduced?" Stiles stares down at himself, hands in his pockets. "Is that like a formal thing? Do I have to dress up - I don't know if S - or, uh, the alpha will agree to it. Also, I've kind of used up all my sick days for work already so doing it on one of my days off would be...easier." 

He realizes partway through how much like a child he sounds trying to shirk his responsibilities, and panics a little, interrupting Mael who looks like he's about to reply. "I mean - I think that sounds...fine, I just can't really agree to it until I discuss it with everyone. Can we pick what day it happens or is that sort of up to you guys? I don't know how all this works." 

"Court is almost always in attendance. As long as myself or one of my kin are present, you can be presented any day of the week that you choose. Although, I ask that you come within the next two moon cycles." Mael walks up to Stiles and offers a hand to him. "Stay for a day, and meet our people." 

Stiles takes the proffered hand, thinking that it's just going to be some kind of deal handshake, but instead Mael leads him gently out of the circle and back into the shadows of the rest of the woods. There's only a slight frosty feeling, not nearly as strong as the previous times, and not painful at all. More like holding a cold drink. It's very strange. He feels lightheaded as Mael picks up his beat-up, old bag and carefully hands it to him. "Just a day?" 

The man nods. "One day."


	6. Dial-Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles can practically hear the dial-up sound his brain is making as it tries to simultaneously process the paragraph he had just read for the fourth time, and figure out what Lydia is asking with her very vague but presumably warranted question. Anyone questioning if he's in his right mind or asking who he thinks he is, et cetera, is probably coming from a good place. He usually doesn't know what he's doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW sorry my life got busy, I got stuck in some art and pulled a couple of extra shifts at work, and then this chapter got way way longer than I thought it would so I have kinda chopped it into two parts. :P

For the sake of Stiles's job, and his sanity as well, they agree to meet in a couple of weeks for the next lesson - on a Sunday. It's his one day off between work, his night classes, and weekly pack meetings. Usually he tries to spend his Sundays with his father, either bringing him lunch at work and bothering the entirety of the Beacon Hills police force, or going out for brunch and getting some quality time in. Hanging out with his dad or the pack are cherished breaks from the self-inflicted isolation thanks to everything else going on in his mortal life, but he can give them up for a chance to learn a little bit more about magic. 

Plus waiting a couple weeks before meeting again means that he gets a chance to recruit Lydia's brilliant brain for more information on this mysterious court, since he doesn't have as much time to do that kind of research as he used to. 

He confers with Lydia, in the middle of a pack movie night, which he's egregiously violating the rules of. Movie nights are supposed to be strictly about hanging out, no outside bullshit, but Stiles is bent over his environmental science textbook and not even sitting at the couch because he has to get some emergency studying in before tomorrow's quiz. For nearly an hour he sits alone at the table in the corner, next to the area that's been unofficially dubbed the kitchen - and for the record it should not have been named that. A mini fridge, a microwave, and one small table that seats two people maybe shouldn't count as a kitchen. There's not even a sink. 

It's right when the beacons of Minas Tirith are lit that Lydia steps away from the movie and the couch and comes to sit across from Stiles. She plays the part of being bored with the silly nerd movie, tapping her nails on the table and sighing for a minute, until she gets tired of waiting for Stiles to say something and closes his textbook. 

"What do you think you're doing?" She stares him down with a stern expression, her hand still on the cover of his book so that he can't open it. 

Stiles can practically hear the dial-up sound his brain is making as it tries to simultaneously process the paragraph he had just read for the fourth time, and figure out what Lydia is asking with her very vague but presumably warranted question. Anyone questioning if he's in his right mind or asking who he thinks he is, _et cetera_ , is probably coming from a good place. He usually doesn't know what he's doing. 

"Um." Yawning and glancing back at the rest of the pack, Stiles decides she must mean the studying thing. "Sorry, right. Movie night. I just got a lot of stuff on the ol' plate, if you know what I mean - this stuff - I mean, you'd probably get all of this first time, easy. But the adrenaline rush of imminent death and pack being in danger that I had in high school to get me through study sessions just isn't there anymore. And Adderall is expensive."

"Stiles, I'm talking about meeting with a faerie." She lets go of Stiles's book, folds her hands in her lap, and sits up straight, looking down her nose at him in disappointment. 

Yeesh, he'd almost forgotten about Mael. Stiles raises an eyebrow at her in confusion. "A fairy? Lydia he was cute and sparkly but he wasn't tiny - he was a regular sized person. Or...taller than a regular sized person, actually." 

"Unseelie court? That's _faeries_. Did you even read the books that I gave to you last summer? There were at _least_ two on the subject of Northern European myths and legends, and I annotated the sections on faeries." 

Stiles can tell that he's royally screwed up but he still tries to defend himself. "I - I skimmed, okay? You gave me like fourteen books, Lydia - and - and we're in California, not Europe so...I tried to read what was relevant, but I was also taking four labs last summer." 

Lydia is silent, eyes narrowed at Stiles while he rips up unused sticky notes. He waits for a reprimand of some kind, waits for her to speak, but she doesn't say anything. Oh god, the silent treatment, coming from a banshee and one of his best friends. This is worse than anything else she could have said to him and she knows it. Stiles drops his face into his hands and sighs. 

"Alright, I'm sorry," he says, sighing, "I should have read the books. I should have talked to you before I went to the second meeting. I honestly probably should have talked to you before I talked to Scott - no offense, Alpha. You're a veritable font of information and good advice and you always have better plans - Lydia please help me, the dude dresses like a fashion model and he invited me to be 'introduced' to the entire court. What the hell is that supposed to mean? What am I supposed to wear? What's an appropriate outfit for meeting with a clandestine society of magic people?"

"Outfits aren't the problem, Stiles." Lydia leans towards him, one pedicured finger on the table. "That can be taken care of, obviously. I can put you in nice clothes but that doesn't change the fact that you're making deals with faeries who are probably up to no good and might already own your soul -" 

"My soul? That's a bit dramatic." He tries to sound dismissive as he looks up at her again but fails miserably thanks to the nervous little laugh that comes out right after. "I mean...you know." 

Lydia looks unimpressed but at least a little bit sympathetic too. Pitying. She relents and crosses her arms. 

"I'll put together some notes, and we'll go shopping, but you owe me." She shakes her head. "I can't believe only you and Scott are invited. Next time, you make sure that I get an invite so that I can save you from your own wiles. You know I had a debutante right? I know how these things operate, how to act - but you got invited." 

"I can try to ask for a plus one?" 

Lydia just hums impatiently at him and gets up from the table, leaving him alone with his textbook. 

 


	7. Propriety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No personal questions?" Stiles reads aloud a bullet point on Lydia's extensive list of rules. According to her, the important ones are bolded. All of them are bolded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the second bit! sorry for any mistakes it's 12:30 am!

Lydia stands in front of the TV like she's giving a school presentation - and honestly, now that Stiles thinks about it, that might not be far off considering the sizable binder that she's given to him to study. It's a hefty one inch binder full of notes and diagrams and even color swatches. Lydia's really outdone herself. Like seriously, he doesn't know what most of this is for and it's still impressive just based on sheer quantity of information. He'd gotten it on Friday, so he'd had a whole two days to go over it before the actual strategy meeting with Lyds, and yet he hadn't even scratched the surface of it. He had flipped through it, but it had mostly been looking at the colors and pictures of clothing that Lydia's put in because, well, he's busy. And also ADHD. 

"Okay, here's what we can be absolutely sure of when it comes to faeries, based solely on what Stiles can remember from the meetings. Number one; they do have courts." She steps towards Scott, who's holding his own version of the binder and hovering by the couch that Stiles is sitting on. She flips through the crisp pages of the binder for Scott, directing him to the right spot, which is a collection of quotes and clipped in photocopies of really old books. "There is such a thing as an Unseelie court. Therefore, there may also be a Seelie court - it's not definite, but I should think it's very likely. Most literatures suggest that the Unseelie Court is a counterpart to the Seelie Court.

"The Seelie Court is also sometimes called the Summer Court, and especially in conjunction with your observations about Mael's spark or magic potentially being connected to the winter solstice, we can reasonably assume that the Unseelie Court may be a winter court. Of course we also know for sure that faeries have magic, or at the very least most of them do, but they all have...different magic types?" She looks uncertain and paces momentarily in the middle of the room. It's probably why Scott won't sit down. Lydia is kind of their canary, so if she's nervous, then of course their alpha is nervous. And Stiles is just Stiles, so very quickly they all become a fidgeting nervous mess in one way or another.

Stiles is already exhausted by this conversation and it's barely begun. The safe haven in a sea of young adult angst seems to be Derek, who's calmly observing out of the corner of his eye while he pretends to read a book. 

"We also know," Lydia begins again suddenly, coming to a cold stop, "they probably care a lot about not being rude." 

"Doesn't everyone?" Scott asks. It's a good point. 

Lydia shoots him a look, and Scott visibly withers under it, but she concedes a little. "They care a lot about propriety, maybe in old-fashioned ways, and definitely not in ways that would be immediately obvious to us. There are probably certain social rules that are concerning and exclusively for magic and its use. It may be all magic users, or maybe even just faeries. Those are going to be the hardest to figure out because you might not be able to predict them; you might not know you're offending people until the point at which they become angry and retaliate." 

"No personal questions?" Stiles reads aloud a bullet point on Lydia's extensive list of rules. According to her, the important ones are bolded. All of them are bolded. 

"Right. We can make an educated guess that if faeries don't like being asked about their magic, they are very likely to feel the same way about their personal lives. Just stick to pleasantries. Actually maybe don't ask any questions at all." Lydia's stern tone starts to quickly devolve into slight panic, but she seems to catch herself and get right back on track easily. "You need the pleasant, business-like manners of aristocrats doing something clandestine. No asking about jobs or family, do not question anyone's motives, don't ask any questions that would make you sound like a tourist or like you don't know what you're doing. You have to sound and look professional." 

Scott looks up from his copy of the notes, looking bewildered. He looks more and more the part of the brooding alpha nowadays, standing in corners and not sitting on couches like a regular person, but he has his moments. "Sorry - I was just...this part says something about stealing babies?"

"We'll get to that." She waves her hand at him. "Boys, this is important and I need you to listen to me, right now, for twenty minutes. Faeries are very sensitive to propriety and you need to make a decision on the least offensive outfits to wear.  In my professional opinion, there are only two options; either you represent yourself or you make an attempt at blending in. There are benefits and risks for both choices. And I can't make this decision for you. I don't want it on my conscience if the two of you go gallivanting off into the lion's den and get killed because you were wearing gold." 

Alarmed, Scott steps away from the couch and goes to reassure Lydia. She's understandably not very good with initiating physical contact, especially something as excessive as regular scenting or hugging, but Scott's been patient enough to negotiate his own ways around that so that he can include her in pack activities and make sure that she's okay. He takes her hand and very lightly touches it to his cheek, and Lydia in turn, if she so chooses, pats his face with very human exasperation. It's not suffocating to the point of putting her off and doesn't even require reciprocation, so she rarely rejects it. Without speaking, the two of them go to the couch and sit down next to Stiles. 

Derek gets up from his chair in the kitchen and silently sits down in the armchair catty-corner to them. 

It's all very grim. Stiles is starting to comprehend the enormity of what he's gotten himself and the rest of the pack into. He still has high hopes for the meeting with the court going well, but there is significant risk. Mael seems nice enough, to an extent, but that doesn't guarantee that other faeries will have the same attitude and behavior. And if even half of the faerie stories and legends that he's skimmed through are approximating the truth, then they can be very dangerous folk. He doesn't regret meeting with Mael, there's just too much that he could learn, and he can't shake this sense of urgency that he has. It makes his spine itch, and his stomach twist. He does regret looping some of his pack into it, though. He should have bartered or figured out something else he could exchange for more knowledge.

Summoning his pack bonds had been an interesting exercise, and could potentially be useful in the future, but he couldn't help but wonder what other things he could do. More than that, what couldn't he do? Almost idly, while the rest of the pack was trying to recuperate, Stiles reaches for his bond with Lydia. He hadn't gotten a chance to look closely at her string before, and was hoping to give it a try now, but without the circle it was like trying to hold a stream of water in his hand. It still had some form to it, but it was difficult to grasp. 

Derek looks up from his book, already pissed, but Stiles ignores him in favor of furrowing his brow, closing his eyes, and concentrating harder. He knows what string feels like and looks like, and tries to imagine holding it in his mind in as much detail as possible. When he reaches for the bond again, it's still not entirely solid, like it's trying to melt away in his hands, but he manages to grasp it for a moment. He can feel the anxiety thrumming off of Lydia and through the bond like a tin can telephone, tangling the string. Before he can do anything else, the bond slips away. Ha. Neat.

He opens his eyes to two werewolves and one banshee staring at him in bewilderment and concern. Well...concern from his two closest friends. Derek on the other hand is white-knuckling his book and doing everything buy growling at the poor, squishy human. Sheepish, Stiles sinks deeper into the couch. "What?" 

Derek actually does growl then, an annoyed and very clipped growl, but it's interrupted by Scott. "Dude, you're bleeding." 

"No I'm -" Even as he starts to argue, he realizes that Scott is right. His nose is bleeding. Christ, this hasn't happened to him in a long time. He'd learned to keep a water bottle on him at all times after too many romps through the woods midsummer without being properly hydrated. He hesitantly raises his hand to his nose to gauge the damage, but as soon as his hand comes in contact with his own blood he feels...something. It's hard to follow because it happens so fast, but it's like looking directly at those holiday sparklers - only, in his chest. A little magical light show that leaves a residual negative imprinted in his lungs. It kinda feels like eating pop rocks and doing a shot of an energy drink at the same. Dazed, Stiles mumbles, "Oh. Sorry. I don't know what happened."

Derek is sitting up painfully straight, clearly on alert. Like an absolute moron, Stiles doesn't even blink before he does the exact same thing as he did with Lydia and tries to find Derek's bond. He's just curious! If he could feel Lydia's anxiety through the bond, then maybe he could figure out what the enigmatic werewolf was feeling. He was so hard to get a bead on, and he and the other werewolves already had an advantage with their keen sense of smell. He just wanted a leg up in conversations with the guy who on multiple occasions has threatened to murder Stiles, and what he gets instead is an instant migraine sparking to life. For a split second it's like someone set a fire inside of his brain, and then it dims down to a regular, shitty headache that he can tell is going to linger. 

Fuck. Oh and also blood. A lot of blood. 

Stiles might be breaking the Guinness world record for the most amount of stupid decisions in a row.


	8. Five in the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Impervious to Stiles's sharp remarks, Derek ignores him and leans in too quickly. If the super fast werewolf had taken a single moment to remember that the bag of bones in his hands is human and has human reflexes, it would have been fine. Stiles could have tilted his head away and let himself be scented without much embarrassment, but instead the two of them knock heads in the most awkward way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long break! I kind of forgot that I was doing this for fun and got stressed about it, but I've recently coerced a friend into watching the show from the beginning so I'm inspired again. :>

The whole nosebleed situation is kind of terrifying, but Everyone seems like they handle it well. Scott barks orders and Derek - well, Derek mostly rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically, as if Stiles bleeding out is the most inconvenient thing happening in their lives. Sometimes Stiles has to wonder if they actually all made it out of high school, or if they all died when they were teenagers and are haunting each other to death. Probably not, but it's a nice thought. 

Luckily for Stiles, Scott has enough residual knowledge of injuries and the like, from living with his mother, working for Deaton, and just generally being injured on the regular. He manages to keep his poor human friend from dying a really embarrassing death, and things settle a bit. 

Nothing against the pack, but Stiles doesn't explain what happened. He doesn't know exactly what it was himself, and he sure as hell doesn't trust his own perception of it. Somewhere in the back of his mind is the ghost of the nogistune, undermining his confidence in his own senses. If he were ignorant of the existence of magic and assorted magical creatures, he probably would have chalked the whole electric feeling in his body up to the symptoms of bloodloss. Or something equally normal. 

And if that's what it is, it won't do anyone any good to start spouting wild, unfounded assumptions. Not when they have such a critical event on the horizon. 

They need to stay focused. 

 

* * *

 

He crashes on his own couch after insisting that he's fine for somewhere around twenty minutes, finally convincing everyone to get out of his hair, and then tossing his ruined shirt into the trash. He's long since given up on trying to salvage any clothing items with blood, and, ugh, he still has homework waiting for him somewhere. Statistics. It's only the third week of the new semester and he can already feel himself falling behind. Even without the threat of violence hanging over the pack, any kind of math isn't his best subject, so he'd probably be just as behind. He makes a mental note to spend...an evening...one of the evenings this week, in the study hall. Even if it's just an hour. 

On the couch, Stiles spends forty minutes debating the merits of ordering delivery fast food - feels silly when he could drive, but should he drive after such a weird nosebleed is the question - and then promptly falls asleep with his phone on his face. It's not even that late, he's just tired. Worn out from all the crap he's juggling in his life. 

And he's really getting sick of magic. It gives him weird dreams. If something strange and/or ominous is hanging around town, without fail Stiles gets the most vivid and perturbing dreams. Isn't it bad enough that he has ADHD and can't fall asleep like a regular human being? Why does the universe have to heap on an extra helping of portentous and confusing nightmares? 

At least this one isn't scary. It's just a bedroom, or maybe a living room, he doesn't really see what the room looks like except for the huge open window on one wall. He can't tear his gaze away from it. The night sky is in full bloom outside, the milky way cutting through the pitch black like a giant scar, and the moon hanging low and sweetly. It's unnaturally bright for the suburbs, but that's not really what he's looking at - or looking for. Stiles sits, crouched in the room, tense and straining. He waits, and waits, waiting to catch a glimpse or hear the sound of something. It's terrifying, but the edge is taken off by the presence of warm bodies around him. A number of shadowy wolves pace around him, and he tries to keep his head down behind them, while still looking out into the night. 

Not scary. Just strange. 

 

* * *

 

Early the next morning - like five in the morning early, because werewolves - Derek and Scott come back around to politely invite him on a perimeter check and they both look upset. Derek is back to staring at Stiles like he's a puzzle that's trying to kill him, and Scott keeps doing these short little sighs and putting his hands on his hips. 

They probably only stopped by to make sure that he hadn't turned into a puddle of goo or an insatiable bloodlusting beast in the middle of the night, but Stiles appreciates it and their suffering enough to accept the invitation. He puts on some boots, an extra layer over yesterday's clothes, and makes himself a cup of coffee - and in no time they're romping through the forest, leaving his weird fuck off dreams far behind. 

The actual walking part of the perimeter check goes about as well as he expected. The casual walking speed of two werewolves in the woods would demand a light jog from any normal person with good reflexes, in order to keep pace and avoid falling flat on their ass. Stiles isn't that person, and won't be for at least another twelve hours, try as he might. Even while walking at his leisurely-in-comparison pace, Stiles stumbles over roots and fallen branches, and what looked like a little bush he could just brush aside, so speed of any kind is a bad idea for him. After only ten minutes of real hiking in the preserve, his coffee is a lost cause too. He's practically leaving his own little Gretel trail behind him for anything that might be after him. Just follow the smell of Folgers Classic.

The wolves are patient enough with him. Every few minutes, they disappear, leaving Stiles wandering in the direction that he thinks he saw them last, and then before he can begin to even worry, they're back. They suddenly appear, standing on a nearby rise with a halo of the faintest golden wisps of sunrise, his wolfish knights in shining armor and really dirty sneakers, and they guide him back to the invisible trail that is presumably the border of the pack territory. 

As the caffeine starts to sink into his bones, and the warmth of dawn starts to rouse him, Stiles slowly realizes that he's getting clumsier. It should be the opposite, of course, as his brain fog lifts, and yet every few feet it seems like some plant or another is moving into the line of fire and tripping him up. 

His brain is still trying to connect the pieces together even as Stiles is already slowing down, shoulders high and defensive. He warily notes that the wolves are gone again, and maybe he's paranoid but it feels like they've been gone just a minute or two longer than they have previously. 

"You bear the mark of the Unseelie Court upon you, son of Adam." A high, pealing voice calls to him from the branches above, the hint of a laugh on their mouth. "But I've never seen you here, amoung my roots, nor in Court. Not in all my years."

Stiles turns sharply in surprise, already backing up as the strangest creature descends from the tree beside him. They look human, for the most part, with short silvery grey hair and hazel eyes, but also disconcertingly similar to the tree that they've just slid from. Their arms and legs have a cracked and roughened texture that lichen clings to easily, and they move like gentle flowing water from branch to branch and down the trunk. It's beautiful. The kind of beautiful that makes him doubt the veracity of all his previous crushes, but definitely inspires suspicion. 

"Uh, I don't...know this part of the preserve?" Stiles mumbles like his explanation is a question, and the creature laughs easily. Like the rustling of branches in a breeze. Everything about them puts him on edge, but he can feel his body relaxing, unwinding. He sips the vestiges of his coffee. "I'm just passing through." 

"Are you a knight-errant then? Youxia?" They twist slightly, giving him a coy look while they fan out their skirt playfully. They have on something that could pass easily as a dress or a toga, made of sheer white cloth and trimmed with short, thin branches and scales of bark. "Are you settling in our Court?" 

"You could settle here," another voice butts in, lower and creaking. In a panic, Stiles whips around to face them, startled and unnerved by the deadly silence with which they approached. This one seems to be much the same, but slightly more feminine in appearance, and clearly resembling the pine that they're standing in front of. Her clothes are made of an emerald green but equally sheer cloth, and in the stead of branches and bark, it's embroidered with abstract and tightly woven patterns of pine needles. To top off her strange appearance, she has a tiny black, brown, and white fluffball of a bird nesting in her hair, tying knots in single strands. "The soil is kind here, not too much rain, and the deer trail nearby to watch."

Stiles opens his mouth to answer, not quite sure what he's going to say other than no, but the creature in white interrupts as they press closer, resting their head on his shoulder. "Court is no place for someone so mild-mannered as yourself. Why don't you stay in the Grove? You don't smell like love or anguish; I doubt the Horned King could have anything to offer you." 

"Horned? Oh - _'kay_. Cool." Stiles absolutely does not want to be here. Not at dawn, not really ever, but the thing that keeps him from sprinting in any direction as fast as he can is that these two...people seem to have a better idea of what's going on than he does, and he's so out of his depth. He just wants to pass his classes. Just a crumb of information. Anything would be helpful. He straightens his shirt and his hair in a sad attempt to regain his composure, and addresses both of them. "Wait, you guys know the Court? The Unseelie?"

They ignore him, the pine person in green nodding to her friend and unseating the poor bird in her hair. "He could easily feed the whole grove with his nature."

"Do you already have debts, poor thing?" The other, still leaning lightly against him and looking doe-eyed, must be oak or maybe cypress. Stiles isn't good at identifying trees off the cuff just yet, especially not when they're shaped like people. And the oak is talking very close to his face. "News comes slow to these parts, as you might guess. We whisper to each other when the wind is right, but no one mentioned...the excess?"

"Excess?" Stiles echoes helplessly. It seems that the two are content to speak past him and not to him, so he isn't expecting an answer. Scott's going to hate this, he knows it; they'll have to hug it out for at least an hour to get the scent of tree people off of him.

"Of course. You're leaving your magic everywhere." Pine wrinkles her nose at him and gestures back down the path that Stiles had come from, as if the magic were plain to see for all. All Stiles sees is dirt and trees. "It's quite rude to leave such a mess behind in a stranger's home, but your nature is...different." 

"We'll make an exception," Oak says gravely. 

Stiles clears his throat. "That's very nice. The Court, though? Do you think you guys could tell me what the Court is like - maybe even what this horned dude is like?" 

The question finally seems to grab their attention, both of them turning to look up at Stiles with eager curiosity. Pine smiles prettily and brushes her hair out with her fingers like she's considering whether to answer. 

"Perhaps. It would depend, of course." She steps away, never turning her back on Stiles, and sits down on the roots of her tree. "On what you're really looking for. Some things are easy, some things are not so easy." 

Oak gives their friend somewhat of a stern look, but reluctantly pulls away from Stiles to sit under their own tree. Thank fuck. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, and then another sip from his now-cold coffee for luck. 

"I need help in the court. We're supposed to visit and I don't know what to expect or what I'm supposed to do." He gestures at himself; messy hair and slept-in clothes, in absolute disarray. "I mean look at me. I wear plaid and jeans professionally, and I'm supposed to stand in front of a king? A horned king? Oh my god, we're going to die and it's going to be my fault.

"I mean I can buy a dress shirt - that's not the problem. I'm just saying that I obviously don't have my shit together enough to impress anyone. Anyone at all." Stiles can feel himself panicking in front of complete strangers, a scene parallel to Lydia's freak out, except that Scott isn't here to calm him down. He has a sneaking suspicion that these tree people are somehow keeping him hidden or have magically led him away from the safety of the pack's territory. "I just need some...advice or - or protection. No, not protection. I mean - I don't really have a lot to offer here I've kinda got my hands tied. I have my job, school, pack business. What do you guys want?" 

Silence. Stiles is used to that kind of reaction, but usually with a hint of some kind of negative emotion attached to it. The two tree people seem more thoughtful than stunned or disbelieving or even annoyed. It's disconcerting but...kind of nice? He's not sure how to feel about this. God, every time he thinks he finds his footing, he realizes he's out of his depth again. 

Pine looks askance at her companion, and the wind picks up. It shakes the trees and little dirt devils catch the pine needles on the ground. The rattling branches sound eerily like whispers to Stiles's anxious ears. 

After the trees stop breathing, and his heart stops pounding, pine finally speaks. "In exchange for a gift, we will advise you and give you our blessing. If your gift is good, our blessing will be good." 

"Hell yes. That sounds fair to me." Stiles grins and holds his arms out in shock and awe, that he's actually managed to muddle through some kind of negotiation without dying, and then he hesitates. "Well - wait - uh, what kind of gift?" 

Pine unhelpfully shrugs, plucking the bird from her head and standing up. "Not my problem, son of Adam." 

And then, because nothing can ever just be normal and chill, she opens her mouth and holds the bird up to it. Without hesitation the small puff of feathers hops in, and the tree girl swallows the whole thing in one go. Stiles just barely manages to hold back a gag, but he knows the expression on his face is bewildered and horrified. Hey, universe? What the fuck is _that_ shit? 

As if one of the wolves have sensed his distress, a distant howl suddenly rises through the crisp air. It sounds surprisingly far away, but that doesn't stop Stiles from immediately relaxing his shoulders. Pack is close, and they're looking for him. There's a keen comfort in that fact. He turns his head towards the sound instinctively, trying to pinpoint exactly which direction it's coming from, but oak swoops in too quickly. They twine their arms around Stiles's neck and press a delicate kiss to his jawline, and it's yet another reminder that these people are clearly inhuman in nature. They're weirdly solid against him and their skin is just as rough as it looks, scratching at his delicate human skin. It's not enough to actually draw blood, but it stings. 

He spots movement out of the corner of his eye, over the oak's shoulder, but as soon as he starts to turn his head toward it they back away a little and block his vision. 

"Embrace your nature." They say to him, the picture of pretty innocence, as if they hadn't done anything unusual. "Best not to misrepresent yourselves; wear red. Take nothing that isn't freely given to you." 

Stiles gapes and starts to reply, but a sharp howl interrupts him again. And this time it's very close. While his head is turned away to look for Scott and Derek, there's a quiet rustle, and the tree people disappear. He's left standing by himself, in the middle of woods that he doesn't recognize, agape as his two friends burst through the bushes. 

Derek reaches him first, fury and hell with him. He looks pissed. But Stiles knows him well enough to recognize that if he's pissed, it's because up until this point he's been worried. Derek probably resents the emotion. 

"Where the hell have you been?" Derek snarls out, grabbing handfuls of Stiles's shirt. Dude doesn't beat around the bush. 

"Woah, holy shit." Stiles probably would have fallen on his ass from the impact of a full grown werewolf, but Derek stubbornly holds him up, looking him over for injuries or maybe ways to injure him. It can't be six in the morning yet and he's already been smothered by two supernatural creatures, and Scott is just a few feet away, looking anxious to do the same. "Relax, would you? I've been right here. _You guys_ lost _me_ \- I've stayed in one spot, like a kid in a grocery store. It's not my fault your furry asses couldn't find me." 

Impervious to Stiles's sharp remarks, Derek ignores him and leans in too quickly. If the super fast werewolf had taken a single moment to remember that the bag of bones in his hands is human and has human reflexes, it would have been fine. Stiles could have tilted his head away and let himself be scented without much embarrassment, but instead the two of them knock heads in the most awkward way. His chin connects with Derek's jaw, rattling the bones in his skull and no doubt leaving Derek unscathed, and then there's the feeling of stubble against his cheek and neck.

It's...uh, intimate. Even Scott looks panicked and confused from the sidelines, but he can only watch as his friend suffers. They share a similar deer-in-the-headlights look while Derek does a rough approximation of a scenting, his breath warm against Stiles's skin, and then jerks away, stomping off to be grumpy in the direction of trees.

Scott clears his throat, and hesitantly pulls Stiles into a hug. When he takes a step back, he looks bemused. "You smell like...trees?"

"We're in a forest," Stiles snipes back, even though he knows exactly why he smells like a tree. 

"More than a normal amount." His friend looks a little exasperated, but his mouth is still tilted in a pleased little smile, obviously relieved that Stiles is alive and healthy enough to be a punk. "Like you've been rolling in leaves." 

"Oh." Stiles rubs his face self-consciously, trying to get rid of the phantom slide of bark against his cheek. He needs more caffeine. "Yeah, I had a weird conversation with the...trees."

Derek growls from somewhere behind him, "Did you hit your head on something? I wouldn't be surprised anymore if you ran right into a tree." 

Hurtful, but fair. If Stiles hadn't been there for the whole thing, he wouldn't have believed it either. He shrugs, not even turning to look at Derek. "No, I did not run into a tree - literally. I just was walking and then these - look, can we not do this right here? 'Cause it seems kind of rude to talk about them while we're....Let's just leave." 

The branches rustle again above him, and a fearful shiver runs down his spine. Yeah, he's really getting sick of magic. 

Stiles grabs Scott by the arm and skittishly flees from the woods.


	9. Indigenous/Endemic

Stiles doesn't explain himself until they make it back to the relative safety of his house. Even if the pine and oak persons have made themselves scarce, the entirety of their conversation had left him spooked. Suddenly the trees don't seem like silent, inanimate objects. They feel alive and present in a way, but it's not cute and fairytale-like. It's less like a picturesque Disney forest, and a bit more like Fangorn. And because of that, he'd rather not risk offending anyone who's listening with his recounting of the meeting, so it's better to wait until they're out of the preserve. He claws at his skin as they walk, still trying to shake the phantom touches and electric feeling under his skin. 

Derek at least looks suitably embarrassed - by which he means Derek looks vexed and irritable and is keeping a very safe distance. He _should_ be embarrassed by that display. Stiles is a reasonable person; he understands that there's an amount of territorial tendencies that all werewolves have, and he isn't usually upset by how that manifests. When it's reasonable, when it's just concerned hugs, pats on the head, and the occasional escort here and there, that's fine. Rarely does it feel condescending, and when it does, he's a big kid and he can rationalize the importance of smelling like pack. If the wolves care, he cares. 

The problem is that it's hard to remind himself of that, to rationalize, when he's facing down a furious, charging werewolf, that could kill him with very little effort. 

Whatever. It's not like it hurt that bad. And he won't admit it aloud, but he's just a tiny bit pleased that Derek was actually scenting him. It's nice to be acknowledged as pack. The weight in his chest lifts a little. 

When they're inside, Scott patiently sits himself down on the couch, the same spot where Stiles had spent the night. Probably on purpose, because werewolves. Derek, on the other hand, prowls around the house with his shoulders hunched and his hands shoved harshly into the pockets of his leather jacket. He doesn't seem keen to stay put, or maybe he's just circling the wagons, waiting for something scary to jump out at him.

Stiles darts off to the bathroom and takes a three minute shower, a skill he's picked up thanks to his busy schedule, just so he can catch his breath. Scrubbing the smell of dirt and trees from his skin is an added bonus. Once he's clean and actually has on a reasonable, not-slept-in outfit, he stumbles over to the living room and drapes himself sideways in an armchair.

"Alright," he starts, not bothering to wait for Derek, "so, a debrief. This is going to sound...well, actually, our lives are pretty stupid already so I guess it's not that out there. Okay, you guys got a little further ahead of me, like you'd been doing before, and all of the sudden the trees started talking to me."

Scott, understandably looks equally worried and confused.

"Hey, no. Let me finish." Stiles holds up a hand. "Not the - not the actual trees. Tree people. I think they're like...dryads or whatever. Something like that, you know? They looked like trees but also like people and I think they're part of Mael's court, so they're probably some kind of faerie also. Shit, I need my laptop. Hold on." 

He needs the internet before he forgets, so Stiles runs back upstairs to dig through his backpack. When he comes back, laptop in tow, Derek is settling down on the couch next to Scott, and there's a fresh cup of coffee on the sidetable beside Stiles's seat. Huh. 

"They said some typical, spooky supernatural creature things, but the important thing is that we kind of struck a deal. Nothing major, so hopefully Lydia won't strangle me." Stiles isn't a moron so when he sits down again, he makes a point to take a small sip of what he assumes is apology coffee before he opens his laptop and starts googling. "I asked if they could give me any kind of information, or any advice, for us when we're introduced to the court and they said they would as long as I brought them a gift.

"Now, I have a couple ideas for gifts. I can't imagine tree people want anything complicated." He sighs. "I don't exactly have to go shopping for jewelry or cologne. Trees like..."

"Dirt?" Scott offers. 

"Y-yeah, buddy. They like dirt." Frowning deeply, Stiles pauses his story so he can trawl the internet for gift ideas. The best idea that he has at the moment is planting a tree, but not just any tree. He doesn't want to tarnish their 'grove', or whatever they called it, with something they might consider invasive so it would have to be an indigenous tree, maybe even something endemic. His second best idea is somehow fertilizing the dirt. That one's trickier, because there's no doubt in his mind that coming in with chemicals and the like is a bad idea, but he doesn't know how to do that naturally. What's he supposed to do - bury some dead animals?

Well. Wait, actually - 

Derek grumbles impatiently, interrupting his thoughts. "Stiles." 

"Sorry, right. Jeez, who'd have guessed trees were so expensive?" He shuts his laptop. "Anyways, they said not to take anything unless it's offered to us, and they also said we should wear red. Lydia's going to have a conniption when she hears that, since I'm pretty sure she was planning on both of us wearing something nice and winter-y, but I asked for help and the tree faeries said red." 

Both of the werewolves seem to mull the information over, thinking and exchanging glances. The wait is deeply uncomfortable, and the more seconds that pass, the more Stiles realizes how ridiculous the whole thing sounds. The advice at face value certainly doesn't seem...substantial. Maybe he shouldn't have made a deal. Lydia had already flayed him for his first faerie deal, berating him for putting himself at risk, but they were doing all of this blind. They needed help and beyond that, it's hard to see the danger in making deals with people who seem to like him so much. 

It's a novel and very weird experience. New and unusual preternaturals have a tendency to waltz into Beacon Hills, already bearing some kind of ill will towards him. Even if they like Scott, they don't like Stiles. It's just the way things are and always have been, so if a couple of faeries are being nice then - oh, well. Gift horses and all that. 

Scott's the first one to break the silence. "Lydia did mention a few myths and tales that had examples of humans...or mortals, who ate faerie food and were trapped or, uh, died. So, maybe they took it without asking? I guess that would make sense." 

"You read that whole binder?" That thing was too much information for a single reading session, and Stiles was in the middle of writing two, twenty page essays for different classes. Thank god for Scott. "You're a braver man than me." 

"Why red?" 

Derek's question is quiet enough that Stiles almost misses it. The werewolf is sitting back, scrolling through something on his phone, looking for all the world like this is a chill and totally normal conversation that they're having. The only thing that gives him away, is the concerningly tight grip he has on his phone. And while the uncomfortable fidgeting and sidelong glances that Scott is doing is usually reserved for the squishier wolves in their pack, since they're being directed at Derek it's probably safe to say that he smells like a variety of negative emotions - that or he's having a full blown panic attack via the pack bond, but that's not really his style. 

"Oh, um, I believe they said something about not lying about who we are?" Stiles tilts his head to the side and stares at the wall, using it as visual white noise, so that he can try to remember the details of their conversation. "Or maybe just being ourselves? I don't really know a lot about color theory but if I had to take a wild guess, maybe it's because Scott here is an alpha. The red will match his eyes." 

Derek is not impressed with Stiles's self-satisfied smirk. "And you?" 

"Well, I'm just his emissary. Maybe I have to match his eyes too?" Stiles can feel his own heartbeat betray his uncertainty, hiking up for just a second. It is a possibility, so he's not lying - it'd be stupid to lie to two superhuman creatures of the night with crazy good hearing - he just really doesn't want to talk about his magic right now. He's exhausted. The more he hears about himself and his nature from other creatures, the deeper his doubt becomes. 

Scott's a good person, a caring alpha. He's done so much for the pack, and for Beacon Hills in general, and he sticks to his morals and ideals. 

Stiles isn't that. He's supportive and he tries his hardest, but he's not a leader, he's not the moral compass of the pack. Largely, his position here is to act a liaison for the pack and for the rest of the human world. He has his connections to the police, what with his dad, and a lot of the time he's the voice of human reason. Not the voice of reason, just the voice of human reason. He's here to remind people that rush hour is not the time to be duking it out in the woods near the one freeway through town, or that a lot of people don't go to bed when the sun goes down, so using superwolf strength near the movie theater at nine in the evening is a bad idea. 

It hurts to hear that his spark, or magic, or nature, smells like blood. Mael had said in the very beginning that his nature was pain. Suffering. Despite Mael's footnote about nature not dictating the goodness of someone, it's hard to not have doubts. Stiles reads books, comics; he watches movies. Heroes don't have blood magic. That's just not how it works. If he wanted to have nice, fun nature magic or healing magic, maybe he shouldn't have advocated for murdering Jackson on a number of occasions, among other things. Dying for the nemeton, the nogitsune, and so on. 

He realizes that his mood must be visibly souring based on the way his friends are watching him. At least his alpha's gotten a bit better at not doing that whole wide-eyed, kicked puppy dog look when someone smells sad. 

"Do you still have the binder that Lydia gave you?" Derek changes the subject quickly and easily, and holy mother of god Stiles is grateful. 

"Yeah, absolutely," he says quickly. "Why?" 

Shrugging and turning back to his phone, Derek says simply, "If the two of you die, I'd like to know what I'm up against."

Grim. Stiles laughs and goes to get the binder for him. 


	10. Coastal Redwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Look, it's the best idea I could come up with." Stiles shakes his head. "You don't want to hear my backup plan, trust me." 
> 
> "At this point, Stiles, I don't think any of your so-called plans can surprise me anymore."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the tags have changed because of this chapter. Pay them heed and be careful out there, folks.

Two nights later he has another lame dream. 

He lays down between the roots of some giant and gnarled tree. If there had been a reason why, he didn't remember when he woke up. All he remembers is laying down, and not getting up. He stays there, unable to move, for days, weeks, months. The trees roots grow wild over and around him, leaf litter blinds him, and moss grows over his arm and between his fingers.

Stiles should be more freaked out when he wakes up from it with dirt in his hair, but all he does is call Derek. 

He answers on the second ring with a simple, "What?" 

Thank god for grumpy, no-nonsense werewolves. "Hey, you guys have a bunch of money, right? I know you still like to do your whole brooding, self-punishment living in the loft thing, but Peter looks like he'd rather die several more times before he'd wear anything from Target, so you guys still have cash money - am I right?" 

"You're asking if my uncle and I are rich at seven in the morning?" If Stiles had music blasting in the background, deafening him, he could almost pretend that Derek sounds amused. 

"Dude, I just want to borrow fifty bucks." He knows he's whining and sounds like a preteen kid, but he doesn't care. "It's kind of urgent, and I can pay you back. I just don't get paid until next Thursday because my job is stupid. Like ninety percent of the population gets paid weekly or every other week, but I have to put up with getting paid on the tenth and twenty-fifth of every month, because it's too much to ask for a consistent paycheck. But I swear I can pay you back as soon as I get paid. I'm good for it. "

On the other end of the call, there's a deeply tired sigh. "Fine. Don't pay me back, though. Just tell me what you're buying, and it had better be good."

"Uhh...a tree." 

"Okay..." Derek's voice is strained with exasperation, per the usual. "I'll be there in thirty minutes."

"You still don't have Venmo, dude? Or Paypal, at least? Come on, what bank do you have? I bet you could just transfer fifty - I mean, thank you, obviously. Thank you. But we do live in the twenty-first century." 

"How are you going to move a tree? Even if a tree could fit in your horrendous Jeep, who's going to move it, or plant it, or whatever you're planning to do? No, I'll be there in thirty minutes, with Erica's truck."

Before Stiles can eke out a witty retort, Derek hangs up on him. Great conversationalist, that guy. But Stiles has to appreciate his magical ability to simultaneously be able to anticipate people's needs and help out, while being a massive dick about it. The pack is lucky to have him. 

 

* * *

 

True to his word, Derek shows up thirty minutes later in Erica's truck. It takes all of two seconds for Stiles to realize that he's also brought Erica herself, because she immediately starts laying in on the horn and shouting obscenities from the passenger seat. Luckily the neighbors are used to it now, and at most he'll get a disappointed frown from Hazel two doors down. After a few years of the pack hanging around and being obnoxious, the lack of property damage and/or arrests has convinced everyone that although the pack is rowdy, they're not real trouble. 

Stiles bundles up in at least four layers, and his best pair of boots, because the morning sky is an ominous bright blue. It's been cloudy and overcast for weeks, but today the clouds seem to have disappeared, and he doesn't like it. The coastal ranges usually manage to keep most of the cold winds coming off the ocean from getting into Beacon Hills, but every now and then they get a decent windstorm. The last thing Stiles wants today is to get caught out in the woods, with the wet ground and the cold wind, and to get sick. 

The wolves generally run hot, and don't get cold easily in the California climate, which is probably why Erica bursts out laughing as soon as he steps out of the house. "I thought we were going to get a tree, not climbing Mount Everest. Are you wearing a hoodie and a jacket? How are you not sweating in that?"

"It's...like...sixty degrees out, Erica. And I don't like the weather today." Stiles grumbles as he stands on the sidewalk. "Shut up and move over, or I'm uninviting you from our tree trip." 

"Ha! Yeah, right." Compared to Stiles, Erica looks like she's heading out to San Diego. Plain shortsleeve v-neck, pleather pants, and high tops - surprisingly modest but still not a look that he could pull off himself. "It's my car idiot, you can't uninvite me. And I'm not sitting next to Derek, he's in a mood today. You can sit middle." 

She jumps out of the car with wicked grace, and all but picks Stiles up to get him into the truck's middle seat. 

"Thanks," he says without a hint of gratitude. As she sits back in her seat beside him, Stiles manages to elbow her in the ribs in retaliation but she doesn't even flinch, and before he can get another word out, Erica hooks an arm around his shoulders and holds him tight enough that it might as well be a stranglehold. 

Derek frowns at both of them, but the disappointment seems skin-deep at best. "Where are we going?" 

"Oh, right. Here, I have the directions on my phone." Stiles digs through his pockets and fishes out his cellphone, nearly spilling some loose change and a couple receipts in the process. He hastily unlocks it and navigates back to the directions he'd found on the website, before proffering it to Derek. "It's just a bit down the 101, I think a mile past that gas station. I guess when you grow giant trees, you need a lot of space." 

After that, he and Derek don't speak much. Erica easily takes up enough conversational space for three people, carrying on about what Boyd is up to and the festering prank war between them. Leaning against Derek and clumsily kicking his legs up and across Erica's lap, Stiles realizes how close they've all gotten as a pack. Everything's really comfortable. The windows are rolled down, and while he occasionally offers a bit of advice for Erica's pranks, mostly all he does is relish the warmth of two healthy werewolves on either side. 

He doesn't realize he's been napping until Derek gets out of the car, leaving him without a pillow. 

The nursery is weird. The person working at the front desk is cute though, with what looks like a couple of piercings in their ears made from copper - which, he's pretty sure isn't supposed to be in piercings - and short, wavy red hair. They also look incredibly tired and uninterested in showing them around, however, so Stiles only asks for a general direction for the three of them to go. He's been there. And then they're off, wandering around a very large and organized garden where all of the plants are in boxes. 

The number and variety of plants, mostly shrubs and trees, is honestly impressive, and Stiles is tempted just to wander through all of them aimlessly. Derek however is not as impressed, and in less than a minute seems to have already lost his patience. He stops Stiles from walking off towards a particularly pretty ceanothus plant by grabbing the back of his jacket and hauling him north, where they'd been directed. 

"What are we looking for?" He asks. 

"Hey!" Stiles stumbles and has to right himself by grabbing Derek's arm. He waves wildly at the eastern part of the nursery that Erica has already disappeared into. "How come she gets free reign to look at plants?" 

He can hear her laugh from several rows over. 

"Erica didn't call me at dawn." 

"Ugh, fine. We're looking for a coastal redwood." He shrugs, kind of embarrassed about making such a big deal out of this. "They're native and they're pretty sturdy. And - I don't know, dude, they're endangered. I had a really weird dream last night and it kind of reminded me that I'm supposed to get a gift for those trees in the forest. My idea was to go out and just plant it in that same area." 

Derek glances sideways at him, clearly skeptical. 

"Look, it's the best idea I could come up with." Stiles shakes his head. "You don't want to hear my backup plan, trust me." 

"At this point, Stiles, I don't think any of your so-called _plans_ can surprise me anymore." 

"Hey, rude. And fine, if you really want to know, I was thinking about calling Scott...and asking what the clinic does with dead animals." He clears his throat nervously. "You know, in England or something, they used to believe that the first person buried in a graveyard would have to become a ghost and protect the other graves. So, people would bury a dog in the yard first. Or a horse. Or a pig. And sometimes they'd bury them alive first."

Stiles pauses, trying to collect his thoughts. The idea hadn't actually solidified in his brain until he'd started talking about it, and Derek is watching him carefully. Like he's fragile. "The point is that the animals become protectors, _guardians_. Maybe it's too little, too late, but a lot of people have died out there or almost died, and have come back as huge assholes. I just thought it might be nice to have something out there that comes back and isn't an asshole.

"And it probably won't even work. It wouldn't be a real graveyard, and I'm definitely not burying anything alive. I'm not a monster. At the very least we bury it properly and it feeds some fungus and plants. Kind of...morbid, sorry." 

After too much hesitation, Derek shrugs and pats Stiles's shoulder. "Okay. We can do both." 

Weird. That seems...too easy. He'd really expected that he would have to defend his idea. Maybe the guy still feels bad about headbutting him in the face, and subsequently will agree to pretty much anything even remotely in the realm of reasonable to make up for it. 

"And I think you should buy me lunch afterwards," Stiles tells him with an easy, mischievous grin, knowing he's pushing his luck. 

Derek doesn't get a chance to reply, because Erica is suddenly beside them and she looks extremely upset. "Stilinski, if you shut the hell up about dead animals, I'll buy you breakfast, lunch, and dinner." 

"Oh, shit. Well in that case, I seem to have completely forgotten what we were talking about. It's all gone. Poof." Stiles stops in front of a needle thin but tall little tree. It's already taller than him. "And what a coincidence, I think this might be our tree. Do you think it's small enough for one or two werewolves to carry?"


End file.
